


Terminal Sight

by viv_is_spooky



Series: Down to the Root [4]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (no seriously he has been painting for 6 hours straight someone please stop him), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety, Beholding-typical Odd Moments of Helpfulness, Bittersweet Ending, Depression, Dissociation, EDS Gerry, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, End-typical inevitability, Entity Meta Stuff, Fix it of sorts, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gerry can have little a normalcy, Gerry is Insufferable in a Cute Way, Gerry is a fledgling Beholding avatar, Gerry will paint All the Major Arcana in a day if left to his own devices, Gerry's past trauma, Helen is a human realtor, M/M, Major Character Undeath, Oliver is a fledgling End avatar, Oliver is doing his best, Oliver's struggles with mental health, POTS Gerry, Panic Attacks, Prophetic Dreams, Ria Cannot Comprehend Human Emotions, Ria is an eldritch mean girl, Slow Burn, Supernaturally Flavored Domesticity, The mortifying (but not eldritch) ideal of being known, Web!Rosie, as a treat, no I will not elaborate on that but. you’ll see., rated teen bc it deals a lot with death and the End, so is Gerry, uneasy alliances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:54:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 27
Words: 31,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23734186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viv_is_spooky/pseuds/viv_is_spooky
Summary: Spider silk weaves through the visions of two Seers. Monstrosity is dawning on them both.
Relationships: Gerard Keay & Anahita, Gerard Keay & Gertrude Robinson, Gerard Keay & Helen Richardson, Gerard Keay & Ria Mirti (End Avatar OC), Oliver Banks & Anahita, Oliver Banks & Gertrude Robinson, Oliver Banks & Helen Richardson, Oliver Banks & Ria Mirti (End Avatar OC), Oliver Banks/Gerard Keay, past Oliver Banks/Graham Folger
Series: Down to the Root [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1792387
Comments: 268
Kudos: 151





	1. Dream Weaver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m here to make a statement,” he says, trying to keep his voice level and impassive.
> 
> “Oh, with the Archivist? She’s not available right now, I’m afraid, but I can give you a pen and paper to write down your account.”
> 
> Oliver shudders at the idea. “I’m not much of a writer. My…words don’t flow very freely.”
> 
> “Don’t worry about that,” Rosie responds in a reassuring tone. “Stories that want to be told weave themselves well under this roof.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Recommendation: “Stitches and Seams” by The Accidentals
> 
> ( _"One fingerprint cannot survive in the dust/The strongest inventions will all turn to rust/The wisest intentions can't live without trust/If life is a story, what's out there waiting for us?"_ )

Oliver is walking through a dream.

He is always within a dream nowadays, a dream that should be a nightmare (yet isn’t), and the only thing that differentiates sleep from wakefulness is whether Oliver is drifting or walking.

Oliver is walking through a dream, so he is awake.

He supposes he could take comfort in the idea that at least the fleshy veins of his subconscious don’t seem to rule over the landscape before him like they do after dark, within his own mind. It isn’t comforting, though, because he _knows_ the veins are there – _all of them_ –, and a part of his psyche lowly mutters that perhaps it’s only a matter of time before he can see their full scope with his eyes open.

Shaking off that thought, which scares him more with the shocking thrill of excitement it sends through his core than it does with the image of the grotesque tendrils themselves, Oliver gently pushes open the door to the building which has haunted him for several nights past. The Magnus Institute.

A middle-aged woman greets him with a smile at the receptionist’s desk and motions for him to take a seat in the lobby, effortlessly keeping her attention both on Oliver and on whoever she’s speaking to on the Institute’s landline. There are threads of silver crisscrossed through her silky brown hair. A plaque sitting atop her desk reads “Rosie.”

When she finishes her phone call and turns her full attention towards him, Oliver cannot shake the feeling that more than one set of eyes has focused in on him.

“I’m here to make a statement,” he says, trying to keep his voice level and impassive.

“Oh, with the Archivist? She’s not available right now, I’m afraid, but I can give you a pen and paper to write down your account.”

Oliver shudders at the idea. “I’m not much of a writer. My…words don’t flow very freely.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Rosie responds in a reassuring tone. “Stories that want to be told weave themselves well under this roof.”

It only takes Oliver half an hour to transcribe his story from memory to the blank sheet of notebook paper Rosie hands him, and he’s made up his mind to ask Rosie to pass along his statement instead of sticking around when the sound of two voices engaged in what sounds like playful bantering echo to him from the general direction of the archives. They get closer and closer, until he can see the people they stem from. 

One is a resolute-looking elderly woman, steel-gray hair pulled back into a tight bun at the nape of her neck as she quirks a faintly amused eyebrow at her companion. Despite the relative relaxedness of her face, Oliver recognizes Gertrude Robinson immediately. As she passes into the lobby, she doesn’t seem to even acknowledge Rosie; instead, she is focused on the person walking beside her: a young man with inky black hair and multiple piercings who seems to be alternating between telling jokes and giving elucidations.

The first thing that makes Oliver consider approaching Gertrude’s younger colleague is how intently she seems to be listening to his words. She trusts this man, or at least grants his words enough merit to take them into consideration. If he can be convinced to deliver Oliver’s statement to Gertrude, she might be inclined to take the warnings written therein seriously.

The second thing that makes him consider approaching the man, who is dressed in head-to-toe gothic attire, is the muffled, sarcasm-tinged hope that seems to flow from his body. It is refreshing without being naïve, and Oliver could stand to talk to a hopeful soul again. To simply be _around_ a hopeful soul again.

The third thing is less something that makes Oliver consider approaching and more something that Oliver takes as a sign that he can’t just turn and walk away. As Gertrude heads back down the hallway to the archive and Oliver’s attention shifts fully to her erstwhile conversation partner, his blood runs cold at the sight of a web of dark, pulsing veins curling up the side of the man’s neck, and _seemingly into his brain._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me @avatarofthebeholding on tumblr where I will NOT shut up about this au (& GerryOliver in general)


	2. Spinning Through Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Eyes in the back of his skull. Eyes reflected in the bathroom mirror. Eyes he had found himself doodling on a break during work one day…eyes he had screamed at the sight of. The first panic attack he had suffered in public, and far from the last.
> 
> Now, he feels that old, familiar tightening of his throat as all the memories come rushing back. The feelings flood his bloodstream, congealed blood rewinding time to make open wounds of his internal scabs.”
> 
> Warning: Oliver definitely has a panic attack in this chapter. And the whole thing is written from within his headspace so...it's kind of a lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Recommendation: “Medusa” by Kailee Morgue
> 
> ( _"There's secrets and riddles that live in these walls/There's ghosts of past heroes and I hear them call my name"_ )

Oliver cannot walk away, yet he is at a loss for how to approach. It was one thing to warn Ms. Robinson of her impending fate – one thing to sit and write down recollections of a dream that he hoped might be taken seriously, unbothered by the scrutiny of any eyes that might question the reality of his premonitions. It is another thing to invite being watched, to invite having his perspectives questioned and his resolve picked apart. Oliver doubts Ms. Robinson’s colleague would be cruel to him, but a lack of cruelty does not mean immediate belief.

Since Graham, Oliver has lost the ability to concentrate while being watched.

He remembers the scrawl in the notebooks – “keep watching, keep watching keep watching” written over and over again, almost like a prayer.

He remembers the helplessness in the mirror – the hope drained from the eyes staring back at him above the bathroom sink – when he realized that Graham would _never_ tell him what was going on. 

No matter how hard he pushed, no matter how much he analyzed, Oliver was never able to be privy to his boyfriend’s secret terrors.

Graham had watched Oliver, though, watched him as if _he_ was the one with something to hide. Near the end of their relationship, Oliver had been unable to even sleep in the same bed as Graham, jarred into an aching insomnia by the feeling of intense, fearful eyes boring into the back of his skull.

Eyes in the back of his skull. Eyes reflected in the bathroom mirror. Eyes he had found himself doodling on a break during work one day…eyes he had screamed at the sight of. The first panic attack he had suffered in public, and far from the last.

Now, he feels that old, familiar tightening of his throat as all the memories come rushing back. The feelings flood his bloodstream, congealed blood rewinding time to make open wounds of his internal scabs. He gasps for air, spots of color swimming before his vision as his throat seizes up with latent panic – with residual fear that will always, _always_ pump haphazardly through his veins.

And then a hand falls on his shoulder, light but firm. Oliver looks up into cloudy, searching grey eyes – eyes that soften with understanding upon reading the terror in his expression. Eyes framed by a curling web of dark tendrils. 

Huh. It seems as if he won’t have to figure out a way to approach Ms. Robinson’s colleague after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me @avatarofthebeholding on tumblr where I will NOT shut up about this au (& GerryOliver in general)
> 
> Thank you also to Parker for [this amazing art of Gerry](https://cuttlefishkitch.tumblr.com/post/620763718394003456/a-fun-gerry-bust-from-avatarofthebeholdings)


	3. The Etiquette of Prophecies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oliver has to say something. Of course he has to say something. But before he can blurt out a vaguely ominous prophecy and regret it, he forces his quivering mind to think for a moment on a potential introduction instead.
> 
> (It’s rude, after all, not to properly introduce yourself before you tell someone they’re dying.)”
> 
> or: Oliver gives a warning. Gerry understands it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Recommendation: "Medusa" by Kailee Morgue (again - it just has institute vibes)
> 
> ( _"My wishing well's run dry/Stars are dying in the sky/So I shed my blood and tears/I'll show no fear just to survive"_ )

Oliver’s eyes must be thrumming with questions, because after a few moments of stunned silence between he and the stranger whose hand rests gently on his shoulder, he sees the stranger’s lips move, hears a softly spoken, “You looked like you’d seen a ghost.” An ironic chuckle bubbles up in the back of Oliver’s throat, and the stranger gives a little half-smile - a brief flash of tooth and silver lip ring, accompanied by the amused-but-sympathetic arch of one eyebrow. 

(He tries to return the smile, he really does, but he can’t seem to take his eyes off of the veins curling ever tighter into  _ the stranger’s - Ms. Robinson’s colleague’s - his new companion’s  _ skull.)

The eyebrow remains arched, and gray eyes flicker between Oliver’s own eyes and his forehead. 

(Words seem to elude them both, and isn’t that ironic in a place of knowledge?)

Oliver has to say something. Of course he has to say something. But before he can blurt out a vaguely ominous prophecy and regret it, he forces his quivering mind to think for a moment on a potential introduction instead. 

(It’s rude, after all, not to properly introduce yourself before you tell someone they’re dying.)

He settles on, “I’m Antonio Blake,” gingerly holding out his right hand. 

Oliver doesn’t know how to feel about how easily that lie slips off his tongue. But it is his protection, and a whispered voice in his core tells him that he  _ needs _ protection here.

“Gerard.” Another half-smile and there is a hand that meets his own - a firm grip, glinting with silver, cold in a way that contrasts with the warmth of the soul in front of him. 

The cold surprises Oliver slightly, enough to ground him back in the present. Enough to remind him of why he had been trying to get this person’s attention in the first place. He holds to the anchoring touch a bit longer than necessary before letting go. Gerard sways on his feet when the contact is lost, so briefly that Oliver could almost tell himself he had imagined it had it not been for the ever-present pulsing of those curling black veins.

“Ms. Robinson, the Archivist? She’s in danger - I don’t know what, but something’s coming for her, and...it’s bad. I have a statement to give her.” He hesitantly offers Gerard the now-half-crumpled piece of paper, again feeling the brush of cold fingertips as it is taken from his hand. “I want to make sure she takes this seriously, make sure she listens. You were talking to her, a few minutes ago, and it seemed like she was paying attention.” He pauses, searching for a way to continue - a way to politely ask a favor and then predict his conversation partner’s imminent demise. 

In the pause, Gerard’s voice rings out again. “Spying on the Institute staff, are we?”

Oliver’s thoughts grind to a halt, and he is all but thrown back into a mental spin before he registers soft laughter on the edges of his consciousness.

“ _ Relax _ , I’m in no position to judge anyone for watching.” There’s a mischievous sparkle in Gerard’s eyes, and Oliver sighs a little laugh with relief. He watches with slight trepidation as those eyes turn serious, thoughtful, skimming over the contents of his statement. There is an occasional sigh, or nod, or “hmm,” and then - faster than expected - Gerard’s gaze flickers back upwards to focus on Oliver’s forehead.

_ Again?, _ Oliver mutters internally.  _ Do I have something on my forehead? _

Before he can open his mouth to ask the question aloud, Gerard mumbles something that sounds like, “So  _ that’s _ your mark.”

Oliver decides not to ask about the strange observation. He’s not sure he wants to know. But he’s sure  _ he _ knows something that Gerard should know - should have the chance to avoid.

“I’ve started to see the veins when I’m awake now, too, and knowing what they mean…”

(Gerard’s eyes have moved again, this time to meet Oliver’s own once more. The shimmering curiosity Oliver sees in those eyes - gray, but no longer cloudy - gives him pause for a moment, catches his breath in his throat.)

Recovered, he continues, doing his best to keep a low and level voice. “Knowing what they mean, I think you may want to consider going to the doctor.”

Shimmering curiosity gives way to recognition, and recognition gives way to a thrumming but well-masked fear. 

Oliver doesn’t like the aftermath emotions that come with warning people of their potential fates. With a shuddering breath, he turns and leaves the Institute before any questions can be asked, leaving behind only the spectre of an apologetic smile set in a melancholy face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me @avatarofthebeholding on tumblr where I will NOT shut up about this au (& GerryOliver in general)


	4. Silk-Spun Reprieves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Inevitable, inevitable, inevitable. The word pounds in his head, pulses through his bloodstream like dark veins pulse across the city in his dreamscape.
> 
> Through the pulsing, a thread thread pulls at him, silken and wrapped around his aching, grief-stricken heart. He hasn’t opened the curtains all day. He hasn’t left the house. Maybe it’s time to go for a walk, to follow his will as it is gently tugged out the door and into the bustling street."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Angel (@verboseDescription) for betaing this!
> 
> I actually have a song sequence I listened to while writing this that provides a pretty good background atmosphere so might as well share it!  
> 1\. "Shroud" by Lissie
> 
> ( _"Inside, I can barely mutter a sound/Outside, I know the light still shines for those who hope/But I can't and I don't and I won't"_ )
> 
> 2\. "Go for a Walk" by Lissie
> 
> ( _"And where I'll go, oh, I don't know/The path will show, oh, oh/.../And suddenly I find/So much hope, oh, oh/Thrown a rope, oh, oh"_ )

Oliver is beginning to wonder if he ever saved anyone at all. 2014 has ended. So has his father’s life, far too early and far too painfully. Far too suddenly, others had said, but Oliver knows that particular bit of insight is false. Untouched by the tendrils that curse his mind. He had known. He had _known_ , and it hadn’t mattered.

_Prophetic cold fever dreams, nagging suggestions made, doctor’s appointments covertly scheduled, frustrations railed against, medical records neatly organized and gathered to soothe a building panic in his mind, all the precautions in the world…none of it had mattered. None of it could stop the inevitable._

_Inevitable, inevitable, inevitable_. The word pounds in his head, pulses through his bloodstream like dark veins pulse across the city in his dreamscape.

Through the pulsing, a thread pulls at him, silken and wrapped around his aching, grief-stricken heart. He hasn’t opened the curtains all day. He hasn’t left the house. It can’t be helping. Normally, that doesn’t matter these days; motivation is as scarce to come by as a portion of London untouched by death. Maybe it’s time to go for a walk, to follow his will as it is gently tugged out the door and into the bustling street. 

Oliver doesn’t know where he’s going. He doesn’t know _why_ he’s going. There is a steadiness, a certainty in his step that baffles him, but he’s long since stopped trying to fight the strange forces that ensnare his life, guiding him where he needs to go, occasionally snuffing out a stray bit of hope in his soul. He retreats from his own vision, willing himself to keep his eyesight intentionally blurred so that he can’t see the impending deaths of passers-by.

There is blurriness, color, cold, the squish of something soft under his feet, a door he opens without registering where he’s walking into.

There is a lobby with cobwebbed corners, there is a hallway, there is an intense gaze on the back of his neck, and when he comes back to himself, he is standing in a doorway looking directly at an elderly woman with steel gray hair. 

There is surprise only shown by the slight widening of eyes in an otherwise stoic, stony face.

And then, there is hope, a rush of renewed strength and presence to Oliver’s heart, because this is Gertrude Robinson, and _she’s not dead_. Marks of impending death curl through her office, around her chair, into three places in her torso, but she’s _not dead_. Not yet. His father hadn’t had long…8 days? 10? 12? Certainly not half a year.

Oliver may not have saved the Archivist, but he had given her more time through his warning. The trance of lifeless resignation he has been trapped in for days releases its hold, and he lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. 

“Here to make a statement?” Her voice is dryly amused, as if she highly suspects what his answer will be. As if she can see, through his dark, weary eyes, all the death his mind is forced to bear witness to.

Oliver searches his mind for the right words to say before realizing that maybe there aren’t any. He can’t exactly just stand there silently, either, so he cautiously settles on a decision to tell the truth. “Actually, I already did. A few months ago. You, uh…you look significantly less _dead_ than I would’ve expected by this point.”

“Ah. Oliver Banks. I must say, I’ve never encountered a dreamer whose sleep is as haunted as you described yours to be.”

Oliver feels his mouth open imperceptibly, forming itself around a little “ _oh”_ of surprise. “How…how do you know my name? I don’t think I used my real one last time I came here.”

“ _Elias_ has his ways.” Gertrude’s sigh is exasperated, as if she doesn’t approve of whoever Elias is. Oliver can’t help but agree when the only thing he knows about Elias is that the man figured out his identity when it should’ve been impossible – not to mention a breach of privacy – to do so. _Rude._

Oliver’s next question is one he hadn’t planned on asking, but one he desperately wishes to hear the answer to. It is a singular word, spoken so softly and quickly that he wouldn’t fault her if she didn’t hear it. “ _Gerard_?”

“He’s alive. Out of work for the time being, but certainly alive.” Beneath the stoicism, Gertrude’s stony features shift a bit into a slightly fond expression – dampened a bit, perhaps, by the fact that her assistant is currently unable to do his job.

A sigh of relief escapes Oliver’s lungs. Another breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

Over the course of the next couple of months, Oliver follows the pull to the Institute whenever it weaves another thread into him. He learns what has marked him, learns of Smirke’s fourteen, learns that telling Gertrude the darkness reaching into her chest is growing will not deter her from walking into danger. 

He learns, he provides what knowledge he can pertaining to End-related statements, and he waits.

On March 16th, Elias Bouchard greets him at the Institute door with a knowing gaze and a barely concealed smirk. Gertrude Robinson has “died in the line of duty.” Oliver is unsurprised – he knows firsthand that the End is hard enough to escape when you _aren’t_ running towards it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me @avatarofthebeholding on tumblr where I will NOT shut up about this au (& GerryOliver in general)


	5. Crystal Hearts in a Graveyard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Through the static in his head, Gerry registers the voice and the question. Registers a chance for vulnerability, a chance to open his mind to someone who has already very literally caught his fall. Someone who helped him save himself when he didn’t register his pain being anything beyond what passed for normal in his world.
> 
> Steady hands still support his shoulders, keeping him from lurching further forward, keeping the loose stitches that hold him together from coming undone.
> 
> He has unraveled so many times before. It never stops hurting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE thank you to Angel (verboseDescription) & Ron (pyrites) for giving me two extra sets of eyes on this chapter!
> 
> In addition to canon information, my depiction of Gerry & how I write his POV is inspired by [Parker's TMA Disability Fics series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1693270)) & how Ron writes his POV in [Two Ships Passing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22189123/chapters/52974727), as well as [this TED Talk Parker shared with me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tGYU8T8upzU&feature=youtu.be).
> 
> Song Recommendation: "Unfortunate Soul - Acoustic" by Kailee Morgue
> 
> ( _"Wooden cage where I lay/Would you let me out to play?/Crystal heart in the graveyard/I think it's time for a new start/.../I'm an unfortunate soul/Unlucky, yeah I've been told/I've still got room to grow"_ )

The sun is salt in the wounds that pass for connections between Gerry’s bones. The service is long. His knees hurt. Each vertebra of his spine groans in aching protest the longer he stays on his feet. His vision is starting to fade to a bloodless blur, tear ducts dried up before he ever had the chance to cry. But he’s had worse. Even on days where pain feels woven into every fiber of his being, he’s always had worse.

Only when the service is over does he allow himself to seek shelter in the shade, does he slump into a seated position on the edge of a headstone under the shade of the first tree he can find. His head whirls, heart kicking impatiently against the walls of its cage. 

“You alright there?” A voice drifts from far away, soft and pleasant but clearly confused. Distant rustling of fabric alerts Gerry to the presence of someone who might now be standing in front of him.

_In front? To the side? Directions are so arbitrary when your mind is an unraveling spool of thread._

“’S fine. I’ll survive,” he manages to croak in response, attempting something like a half-smile that probably comes out looking more like a grimace. “Unless I don’t.”

“Hm. Afraid you’ll accidentally summon an angry ghost by sitting on that grave?” This person is… _joking with him_?

How should he respond to that? A well-timed joke in a graveyard, of all places. Usually _Gerry’s_ the one to make those kinds of jokes, the one who leaves an uncomfortable conversation partner stuck on what to say.

Eventually, he settles on, “Oh, we have nothing to fear from the dead.” _Is that funny? He’s not sure._ Sometimes truths can be funny told out of context, can’t they?

He gets a laugh for his efforts, at least. “I, uh, can’t quite tell if you’re serious there.” The voice is now amused, yet still humming with that consistent undercurrent of concern.

Hearing such a tone behind words directed at himself is unusual, Gerry muses.

His mind’s eye spins too much to allow him to look up at whoever the disembodied, distant voice belongs to. Doesn’t mean he can’t summon some sense of humor to distract from the fact that he probably looks a minute away from joining Gertrude among the ranks of the recently departed. “I’m _dead_ serious.”

The pun earns him a surprisingly genuine-sounding chuckle, and he surprisedly lifts his head only to feel his world spin. _Too fast, definitely too fast_. He grips tight to the edges of his marble headstone-bench to avoid pitching forward into the ground beneath him.

There is a dull, muffled thud in his ears - the sound of someone dropping to their knees in front of him. There are two palms that gently catch his shoulders, and then he is meeting eyes through the haze – dark, endlessly melancholy eyes, framed by gentle worry lines that etched themselves into his memory months ago. The dreamer whose subconscious had been touched by the End – _Oliver_ , his mind supplies, the Knowledge ringing clear with a sharp frequency that could not be further from the tone of his own muddled, muffled thoughts.

“Oliver,” he repeats aloud, skipping a more traditional introduction. He doesn’t have the energy for one of those – rarely does, but _especially_ not today.

The worry lines smooth a bit as Oliver’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Thought I’d introduced myself as Antonio Blake,” he says. “Oh well; I suppose that gets the awkward part of this over with. Gertrude told you about me, then?”

“No.”

“Oh. Oh, alright…Gerard, right?”

Through the static in his head, Gerry registers the voice and the question. Registers a chance for vulnerability, a chance to open his mind to someone who has already very literally caught his fall. Someone who helped him save himself when he didn’t register his pain being anything beyond what passed for normal in his world.

Steady hands still support his shoulders, keeping him from lurching further forward, keeping the loose stitches that hold him together from coming undone.

_He has unraveled so many times before. It never stops hurting._

A small, blurred sequence of adjustments later, Gerry finds his cheek pressed to the slightly-rough fabric of jacket overlaying Oliver’s shoulder, and he realizes through vaguely remembered smokescreen interactions from the past few minutes that he never answered the name question. 

He can only hope the context is still remembered, that his belated response may be cataloged in Oliver’s mind more than it will ever fit into the disjointed corners of his own psyche. “ _Gerry_ ,” he hears himself say, and proceeds to stifle a hiss of pain as white-hot nerves send firecracker complaints to the surface of the dark space in his mind.

It hurts; everything hurts, but everything _always_ hurts on days when he wakes up betrayed by his own body. And as Gerry bunches shaking hands in Oliver’s jacket, leaning heavily on a spirit that feels kindred – on a shoulder he trusts more implicitly than is likely advisable – everything hurts just a little less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me @avatarofthebeholding on tumblr where I will NOT shut up about this au (& GerryOliver in general)


	6. Nightmares Should Pay Rent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerry is not in any state to go home alone, Oliver says. Hand tremors, little earthquakes, betray flares of doubt that his calm voice does not.
> 
> Gerry agrees to the subtly shaky assertion with a faint nod. He doesn’t want to go home alone, and a knot of dreadstone fear in the pit of his stomach reflexively protests against going at all. “Home” is still situated above a familiar cavern of hungry books, one that feels haunted by memories now in the absence of ghosts. The absence of ghosts. The thought of that phrase gives him pause — is the absence of the dead truly the absence of ghosts? 
> 
> Gerry wonders if the spectres of memory count as ghosts. They certainly haunt him enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to Ron (pyrites) for betaing this chapter!
> 
> Song Recommendation: "I'm With You" by Avril Lavigne
> 
> ( _"Won't somebody come take me home?/It's a damn cold night/Trying to figure out this life/Won't you take me by the hand?/Take me somewhere new/I don't know who you are, but I/I'm with you"_ )

_ There is the shaded grave _ : pain flares in his parched mind, the pressure of solid arms around him. There are eyes — earthdark, melancholy, concerned, resolute.  _ Gerry is not in any state to go home alone _ , Oliver says. Hand tremors, little earthquakes, betray flares of doubt that his calm voice does not.

Gerry agrees to the subtly shaky assertion with a faint nod. He doesn’t  _ want _ to go home alone, and a knot of dreadstone fear in the pit of his stomach reflexively protests against going at all. “Home” is still situated above a familiar cavern of hungry books, one that feels haunted by memories now in the absence of ghosts.  _ The absence of ghosts. _ The thought of that phrase gives him pause — is the absence of the dead  _ truly _ the absence of  _ ghosts? _

_ (Gerry wonders if the spectres of memory count as ghosts. They certainly haunt him enough.) _

_ There is the pain of standing up: _ squealing knees, rush of blood away from his head. His heart rails against its bone-sculpted prison, and his disorientation is noticed. Worry lines deepen. 

_ There is a jagged pothole: _ caught shoe, sideways stumble of ankles threatening to buckle in protest, gentle catch of his flailing form by hands that no longer radiate little earthquakes. The nails on the hands are painted black, slightly chipped, careworn as the face of their owner.

_ There is the tube: _ too crowded with brightlight chattering,, too much to endure without snapping out of existence for a moment. Colors dull as he fades out, collapses against the seat behind him, and he is vaguely cognizant of a worried little  _ “oh” _ to his right a moment before there is a solid, warm figure beside him to lean on once more.

_ There is one constant and one only, one physical sensation that is not some variation of familiar pain: _ a steady, guiding hand on his back, thrumming with protective energy, cautiously supporting him through the motions of traveling back towards Pinhole Books  _ (he tries so hard not to call it his home, has never really had a home, does not wish to give the designation to that awful place). _ It is occasionally accompanied by a voice, serious but pleasant, soft yet composed. In other words, there is one constant, and it is Oliver.

When the guiding hand is gone, he sinks onto his bed.

Confusion flashes through his mind. Usually, he would not have forced himself to leave the house in the condition he had woken up in. He knows better, he really does.

But there had been something about today that had seemed important.

Something that pulled him forward through the haze of pins and needles, dulled the ache enough to be bearable, convinced him that he needed to go to the funeral —  _ loyalty to Gertrude, who had saved him from his mother? The Eye wanting him to reconnect with Oliver? _ Gerry doesn’t know, doesn’t  _ Know, _ and cannot bear to think about it — to think about anything — at the moment. He needs rest, needs to lie still and let the blood in his body redistribute itself so his heart will stop hammering so loudly. He is tired of it leaping his ears to chant its bloodstarved battle cry of shotgun-blast thumping.

Oliver, it seems, is not going anywhere, having curled himself up in an armchair tugged over to sit next to Gerry’s bed. Good.  _ Good; _ he does not want to be alone in this place.

Desperate for a distraction, for some reprieve from the stifling silence of the room and the deafening, psyche-splitting screams of his own mind as he drifts in and out of consciousness, Gerry studies Oliver during his moments of lucidity. Something in the man inspires Gerry’s latent curiosity to spark more than it has in years, igniting beneath the pain like firework embers. 

A patch of light skin encompasses Oliver’s nose and forehead, sweeps across his cheekbones, the contrast against the deep brown of the rest of his face accentuating both his facial structure and the purple shadows of prolonged exhaustion beneath his eyes. Those eyes, so observant and profoundly sad in waking moments, flicker restlessly behind heavy lids and a dark fringe of lashes as he sleeps. His worry lines do not soften. If anything, they crease tighter.

_ (Faintly, Gerry Sees the marks of the End twine themselves around Oliver, cold roots binding him to the concept of inevitability. He wonders how much hope remains, wonders how far gone the person who saved his life is. Resolves, distantly but finally, to bring him back from the ledge of hopelessness if worst comes to worst.) _

The way Oliver is folded tightly in on himself, knees pulled tightly into his chest, paints a clear-lined picture of someone trying to keep the external world shut out. And while Oliver’s position doesn’t look  _ comfortable, _ per se, Gerry suspects that physical aches and ails have little to do with the way the man eventually wakes, eyes opening wide as saucers for one haunting moment before they fall back into tired resignation.

He remembers Oliver’s statement, can only imagine the nightmares have gotten worse since then, knows that trying to talk it through won’t work.  _ Not everyone cares about power and knowledge, _ he reminds himself, pushing deceased skin spirits out of his mind.  _ Sometimes, solidarity is enough —  _ understanding _ is enough. _ Contact  _ is enough. _

Slowly, so as not to startle Oliver, Gerry reaches out a hand towards the armchair, hoping the involuntary crack of his knuckles as he reaches out his fingers goes unnoticed — unjudged.

After staring blankly for a moment, Oliver registers and accepts the gesture, slowly intertwining his fingers with Gerry’s. Both of their hands are shaking now, but the grounding force of a solid touch makes their respective plights more bearable. It roots them in reality, for better and worse. 

The silence is not uncomfortable, but it is heavy, so Gerry breaks it without full conscious thought. He may not be able to erase the cold veins of the End, but he can lighten the mood — throw doubt on the idea that life is worth less than its inevitable termination. 

“Your nightmares should pay rent,” he mumbles, wincing at how the words scratch like sandpaper in his throat. The momentary hurt is worth the surprised, pleasant laughter that bubbles up from Oliver’s throat. It is half-ironic, of course, but nonetheless more genuine than Gerry had hoped for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me @avatarofthebeholding on tumblr where I will NOT shut up about this au (& GerryOliver in general)


	7. Memory Dive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Gerry is not Anahita. It doesn’t matter; Oliver’s mind has already drawn enough parallels to leap from one to the other. The memories come back in a flood, and so does she.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to Ron (pyrites) for betaing and Angel (verboseDescription) for also giving this chapter a read through!
> 
> Song Recommendation: "River (Live)" by Vanessa Carlton
> 
> ( _"All you need is the space for the beauty to take you/And she will take you/The river flows, it takes ahold/And it's running through/And we ain't changing on our own/Oh, we change for you/The river flows, it always flows/Flows through you"_ )
> 
> CW FOR THIS CHAPTER: Reference to suicidal thoughts (If anyone needs to skip it, it's between “Sigh. Averted eyes” and “I wonder if…”)

Gerry has drifted to sleep again, fingers still intertwined with Oliver’s. Deep in heavy-lidded slumber, he casts an unsettlingly fragile silhouette. Inkstained hair spills across his pillow, leaving the eyes on either side of his jaw visible. The chilled porcelain tone of tattooed parchment skin contrasts sharply with the increasingly uncomfortable positions he tosses and turns through.

 _He must be double-jointed or… something_ , Oliver surmises, because no matter how carefully he tries to adjust to Gerry’s shifting, Gerry’s arm often ends up in a position that looks like it _should_ be uncomfortable enough to wake him up. He never wakes.

A rush of jealousy seeps through Oliver from head to toe, but he shoves it down – lets it wither – upon recalling the cloudy-eyed, sway-walking, visibly aching exhaustion that had led to this deep sleep. He extinguishes it completely a moment later, letting his mind sink into the haunted expression that had dawned on Gerry’s face at the door of Pinhole Books.

How Gerry’s eyes had dulled from cloud to mist, filming over with an extra layer of protective haze as he eyed the store sign with barely-numbed fear.

How he had stepped gingerly over the barrier between shop and street, left foot shadowing right.

How that swift motion had been followed by one of his elbows landing with immediate, urgent _thud_ against a lightswitch on the wall inside.

How he’d initially startled at Oliver’s steadying palm splayed across his back, in spite of the precedent of touch and trust that had been set on the walk back from the cemetery.

Gerry had been hesitant – hesitant, shuddering, and consumed by little gasping flinches – from the second he had introduced Oliver to the place he referred to as _home_.

Oliver doesn’t know exactly what Gerry has been through, but he’s certain it’s nothing that would warrant envy. 

As he reaches that conclusion, Gerry makes a particularly harsh turn in his sleep, sending Oliver’s balance into disarray until he finds himself unintentionally crashing onto the unoccupied side of the bed.

He is tugged, and falls, and lands on a surface meant for sleeping – forced into some physical semblance of rest by a well-meaning soul. The bed is not the couch. Gerry is not Anahita. It doesn’t matter; Oliver’s mind has already drawn enough parallels to leap from one to the other.

 _The memories come back in a flood_ , _and so does she – calm as the glass surface of a lake at sunrise_ , _soothing as the sound of the ocean_ , _strong willed as a riptide shattering the current and just as deadly when wronged_.

 _Details flash through the water_ : _a tide of dark hair rippling down her back_ , _a solid and immovable shoulder he cries on after fleeing the Barclays building for the last time_ , _a cold voice cutting through the searing pain of old flame when Graham tries to come visit him._

 _She knows him well enough to know that a lack of protest does not equate to being comfortable with Graham’s presence_ , _sees enough tension in his jaw to equate it to discomfort_ , _stops the old flame at the door before it can set Oliver alight again_.

 _“You’ve done enough_ , _” she says to the extinguished embers on the front porch. “Let Oliver find peace – you robbed him of it for years.”_

 _She toes the line when he can’t stand_. _She remains resolute as time itself through the thick of every panic-soaked night_. _She takes canceled plans and turns them into future rainchecks_. _She waits for him to return when his mind sweeps away in a panic_. _She does not listen to the changeable song of the wind_ , _she tells him_ , _for the whims of the elements cannot will away the inevitable_. _Oliver will be okay. Oliver will be okay_ , _and that is a_ fact, _even if he can’t recognize it yet_.

_“The moment you rise will feel exactly the same as this one,” she says, moving to open the living room curtains. “The pain will shrink with time. It will be next to nothing, someday.” Light. Turn. Pause. Locked eyes on his. “Sometimes all you have is someday. That doesn’t mean today isn’t worth living.”_

_He stays on her sofa because she offers him home, a place to rest even when dreams won’t release their grip. He rests his cheek on its cool, dark leather. Thoughts of life’s one destination come knocking, hour after hour, until he cannot bring himself to move._

_Anahita never sits on the sofa. She asks him often if it is comfortable. She regards it with a wariness he has never seen before, eyes deep and dark with memories he doesn’t dare press her on._

_“It was inherited from my grandmother,” she says. “I slept there during the worst parts of my life, when the depression hit hard.” Sigh. Averted eyes. “It’s a good thing you didn’t know me in high school. I spent half of those four years wondering if there was a reason to survive ‘till graduation day.” Glance to the couch. Glance back to Oliver. Slight raise of eyebrows, a minute expression of aching concern. “Sometimes I wonder if…” Trail off. Heavy silence._

_“Wonder if…?” Oliver echoes gently, curious for the first time in a while, feigning casual focus on a few strands of cobweb in the corner of the room._

_“If staying there made it…worse, somehow. Drained my energy even more. I felt near catatonic at one point, and as soon as I moved back into my own room – my own bed – that began to subside.” Lips pursed in thought. Thoughtful inbreath. Resolute exhale. “You can always stay in the guest room, if you’d like.”_

_“I like it here.” He means it. The cold leather is comforting in a way he doubts any bed could be. Nothing can be done now about his fate. He will spend the rest of his nights watching causes of death pulse through doomed strangers, and that is no longer something he questions._

_Anahita adopts a kitten. Pinprick claws tear leather seams apart. A month later, Anahita helps Oliver move into his new flat._

_“You ring if you need anything, you hear?” she says. “And check in every now and then, so I know you haven’t died.” Soothing embrace. Proud smile. The gleam of wet eyes preceding one more thought. “You may want to find a roommate. Wouldn’t want you to isolate yourself again.”_

_“I_ have _stayed in contact with you.”_

 _“You’ve been_ living with me _, Oliver.”_

_Bashful smile. Fond giggle. “Point taken.”_

Gerry gasps awake, startling Oliver out of remembrance. Gray eyes meet Oliver’s with nothing but blank horror for a moment, yet still his hand is held onto for dear life. Statue-still, Oliver waits for the storm to pass. Epiphany hits, clear as sunbeams poking through clouds.

Anahita. Himself. _Gerry_.

Oliver may not be able to save all of the people who die in London, but he can help the haunted soul in front of him move on from a past marked by terror.

When the embers of conscious life set themselves alight once more in Gerry’s eyes, they are followed by a wisp of a smile. “You’re still here.”

“I _am_ still here.” Soft chuckle. Expression shift. Serious eyes, still slightly softened with prior humor. “You don’t seem to like it here very much.”

“Yeah. I don’t.” Gerry’s response is clipped but not sharp. He looks down, hair falling to hide his face from Oliver’s view. “Not really up to finding a new place either. Takes a lot of energy, that.”

“Well, about _that_ …” Thoughtful inbreath. Resolute exhale. Channel the ocean. Channel solidness. “I’ve been thinking, lately, about what it might be like to live with a roommate. You know, someone to drag me out of my own head now and again. And you, you’re not comfortable here.”

Gerry’s head snaps up, eyes brimming with shock and hope, slight wisps of desperation in the loose strands of hair that frame his face. He doesn’t speak – waiting, perhaps, for the other shoe to drop.

The other shoe drops, but not in the way Gerry seems to expect. Plans are talked through as the night passes, and by sunrise an outline of forward steps has been solidified. Pinhole Books will not be somewhere Gerry feels obligated to call “home” for much longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me @avatarofthebeholding on tumblr where I will NOT shut up about this au (& GerryOliver in general)
> 
> Also we have [fanart](https://avatarofthebeholding.tumblr.com/post/619215786900439041) YAY!


	8. Navigating Normality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver wishes he could cure haunted dreamscapes, but the next best thing is to stay solid in the face of their aftermaths. So, as best he can, that’s exactly what he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to Ron (pyrites) for betaing this, Ren (renwhit) for giving me advice about getting back into Oliver’s POV, & Parker (CuttlefishKitch) & Ron for listening to my first draft of the chapter!  
> Song Recommendation: “Rescue” by Shey Baba
> 
> ( _"Nowhere to run from/Nowhere to go/Lost in the headlights/Lost in the pain/.../Are you holding on too much to all that's invisible?/Oh, you will remember my name/You are the only way/And I'll always be the one/I'll be the one to rescue you"_ )

London’s buildings are choked with black veins. Part lucid and part trapped, Oliver drifts to their rhythm, alternating between cold fear and hazy resignation. During moments in which he can choose which direction to turn, he pivots and reaches away from the city and all its impending deaths. He flees as much as he can while floating, willing the sickly glow of street lamps to fade behind him – willing the absence of crowds to lend him peace. He wanders along the side of the M25, staying between trees that block his view of future wreckage sites and the dark tendrils that envelop them.

Then, the trees clear and give way to farms. It isn’t long before Oliver stops dead in his tracks at the site of a herd of cattle preemptively marked in the places they will soon be slaughtered. If he hadn’t been dreaming, Oliver might have been sick. As it is, he simply stands in silent shock while something within his core twists as viciously as the starburst veins splayed across the field of livestock in front of him.

He reenters the conscious world with a tremor, throat parched with latent terror. Rising gingerly, careful to mind the creaking floorboards, he makes his way towards the kitchen.

Along the way, as he does every time he wakes in such a manner, Oliver stops at Gerry’s door, opening it as quietly as squeaky hinges allow. It never stops scaring him, not knowing what he’ll find behind that door. A creeping dread chills his bones, whispering that maybe the darkness in his dreams has finally found its way back to the person he once saved from it.

Usually, a sliver of light from the hallway falls upon the bed to reveal Gerry deep in a heavy slumber, untouched by any patient, reaching web of veins.

Tonight, he is curled into himself in fear, back pressed against the headboard of his bed. His eyes, when they snap up to meet Oliver’s, glisten with unshed tears. He may not be about to die, but Gerry certainly isn’t well.

Water can wait.

Oliver crosses the room and sits on the corner of the bed closest to Gerry, reaching a hand out in offering. He starts the routine of reminding himself not to be hurt, not to withdraw into himself too soon, because Gerry always needs a bit of time to process the implications of someone reaching towards him without expectation.

He’s only made it through the first half of this thought before his mind goes blank with shock because there is a trembling hand clutching his own, a light weight curled against his side, a face pressed into his shoulder.

 _The nightmares must have been especially bad tonight_ , he realizes with a sigh.

Oliver wishes he could cure haunted dreamscapes, but the next best thing is to stay solid in the face of their aftermaths. So, as best he can, that’s exactly what he does, soaking up the comfort of human contact as he shields Gerry from the tense 2 a.m. silence of the world.

When the trembling has stilled a bit, Oliver briefly leaves the room for two glasses of water. Returning, he offers one of these to Gerry. The quiet of the night has lapsed into comfortable by the time each glass is empty, and as the clock upon Gerry’s wall reaches the hour of dawn, Oliver’s mind turns – as it often has lately – to inheritance.

The dreams which occupy pieces of his own nights are getting worse. Those which occupy Gerry’s have maintained their severity for the past month. Nothing is getting _better_ , and Oliver is keenly aware of the dwindling supply of the money his father left to him. If this pattern of nightmares is to continue longer for him and Gerry, which is what it seems to be trending towards, they can’t wait for their luck to look up. They need to seek the means to stay afloat before their resources have run out.

As much as Oliver hates to admit it to himself, they need _careers_.

When he first breaches the topic with Gerry over breakfast, the response he gets is an airy, reassuring, “I’ve still got _plenty_ of cash left from my mum’s spooky book business.” 

The comment is accompanied by a casual eyeroll, and Oliver wonders – not for the first time – how anyone could get used to a lifestyle brimming with fear enough to speak so casually of it.

“Still not endless,” he retorts, and is pleasantly startled at the fond smile he gets in response.

“Alright, soooo…what’s the plan then?” Gerry’s chin rests on one hand as his eyes lock with Oliver’s, warm despite the coolness of their color.

And just like that, “the plan” has slipped Oliver’s mind completely. That is, until his cell phone chimes on the table, lighting up with the message, _“We’d love to have you back!”_

Right. The Keystone, the magic shop.

With a deep breath, Oliver looks up from the screen to meet Gerry’s intent gaze once more. “I worked at a magic shop for a bit,” he explains, “and I still have connections there. They said I could come back – that’s what that message was – and I’m fairly sure they’ll welcome you aboard, too.”

Gerry glances up and to the side in thought for a moment, worrying at his lip piercing, before giving a small but definitive nod. “So, what do you need from me then?”

“Do you have a copy of your CV on hand, by any chance?”

Oliver has no idea if Gerry’s ever created a CV, but he figures it’s best not to assume anything. He’s already learned that defiant hope is far from the only surprising quality in the person sitting before him.

Gerry’s voice falls somewhere between clipped and jovial as he responds, “Never made one. Never needed to.” Then, with a tilt of his head to the side, he leans back in his chair and mutters, “Seems like it might be a fun challenge, though.”

“Do you know the general categories you need to fill?”

“Yeah, but I don’t remember the order they’re all supposed to go in.”

Oliver feels a tired laugh escape his lips. He couldn’t forget the order of a CV if he tried, not after how hard it had been drilled into him back in university. Verbalizing that won’t help anything, though. 

Gerry’s hopeful about this, for some unfathomable reason. Oliver can – _will_ – let him keep that spark of hope. “I have one made already, so we can work off of that – structure wise, at least.” With determination that hasn’t coursed through his veins in ages, he goes to get his computer and then pops it open on the kitchen table, pulling up a blank document and his own CV to flip between.

“So, let’s start with education.”

“Homeschooled.” The word is spat out, bitter, as shaky as it is certain. Filled with implications Oliver doesn’t dare approach right now.

With a sighed outbreath and a plea to his own energy to stay grounded, he continues. “Professional experience?”

Gerry’s mouth curls into a bitter smirk, eyes fixed on something in the distance above Oliver’s head. “Been working at the bookstore ever since I was old enough to, technically. I never actually got paid, though, not as an employee or anything like that. Does it still count?”

‘The bookstore,’ Oliver assumes, means Pinhole Books. As far as he’s concerned, the fact that Gerry even had to endure that place has to count for something. And if employment experience is all it can count as in the mundane world, so be it; it’s the best he can do, the most reassurance he can give. “Yes. Yes, it counts.”

Gerry’s ironic smile turns glowing then, genuine, as his focus shifts back to the present. Eyes calm from billowing smoke to misty gray, clearing as they soften.

It takes a moment for Oliver to find his words again. “Alright, and… volunteer experience?”

“Hmmm.” Gerry’s eyes flicker down to the table, where he’s currently in the middle of running his left thumb over the silver ring splints on his right hand. “I don’t really have any. None that aren’t all steeped in supernatural drama.” His laugh is soft, yet achingly self-depreciating at the same time. “I can’t say I’ve ever really ‘helped’ with anything the majority of the population would believe.”

Oliver remembers the recognition he saw in Gerry’s eyes the first time they met at the Institute, the immediate belief he had displayed – the way he seemed to see truth in the conviction behind the warning spoken to him, behind the eyes gazing back into his own.

Not all help offered is taken. Not all volunteers are fully willing. Oliver knows this better than most, and a voice within him whispers that perhaps Gerry does also. At a loss for how exactly to express this, and still trying to steer clear of bringing up anything besides necessary past experiences, he tries to convey this meaning in a few vaguely pointed words. “I… know the feeling.”

There is a humming energy of understanding that fills the air, and Gerry stops tracing over the silver on his right hand to reach his left out across the table. After finishing the phrase he’s typing, Oliver accepts the gesture with his own right hand. 

Each of them knows that there are stories behind the certainty of their respective predictions. But those stories don’t need to be told right away. For now, the solidity of intertwined fingers is enough to nurture belief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me @avatarofthebeholding on tumblr where I will NOT shut up about this au (& GerryOliver in general)


	9. Curriculum Vitae

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Curriculum vitae” – “course of life” – the course of his life. And the most surreal part of it all is here, now, trying to make it fit into some mold of plans and pages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH to Parker (CuttlefishKitch) for bearing with me/helping me revise as I read my rough draft aloud line by line & obsessed over it, & also to Angel (verboseDescription) for listening!
> 
> Song Recommendation: “A Safe Place to Land" by Sara Bareilles and John Legend
> 
> ( _"You know the famine so well, but never met the feast/When home is the belly of a beast/.../Surely someone will reach out a hand/And show you a safe place to land"_

Gerry’s pulse twists and turns to the rhythm of his thoughts, stuttering staccato words struggling to shift into sentences. What he had hoped would be a piece of normalcy to hold to has turned into just another tug at the seams that keep him together.

Really, he should’ve known. CV – “curriculum vitae” – “course of life.”

The action of creating a CV, in and of itself, is normal.

It doesn’t matter.

Oliver’s measured, harmless questions remind Gerry that even the most mundane of experiences will forever be stained for him, cast into unnatural shades that have clouded his vision ever since he first learned of Smirke’s fourteen. His life has always veered several degrees left of ordinary, threaded through with fears that cross colors and intertwine.

“Curriculum vitae” – “course of life” – the course of _his_ life. And the most surreal part of it all is here, now, trying to make it fit into some mold of plans and pages.

“Alright, so we’re at the ‘skills’ section now.” Oliver’s voice, smooth and pleasant as birchwood, rolls on through questions. He must see Gerry’s faltering, must on some level register the little sparks of ironic laughter threatening to rise out of his throat like soot.

Oliver _must_ notice, but it doesn’t stop him from trying to help. It doesn’t stop him from tracing soothing tree rings around the tattooed curve of the joint where Gerry’s thumb meets his palm.

Gerry doesn’t know how to feel about that. All he can register is the flame that crackles away at increasingly more careworn seams in his psyche – the threat of being Known rather than just Knowing. A threat that feels, somehow, less daunting than it might be if the person sitting before him were anyone _but_ Oliver.

“Gerry…did – did you hear me?” The question is velveteen, gentle – _too_ gentle — given how little it must look like Gerry is paying attention.

Through the silken strings pulled taut across his throat, Gerry coughs out an answer. “Yes.” Yes, he heard. No, he doesn’t know how to respond.

“’Skills’ might be something like…knowledge of computer software, or another language, or…”

Oliver’s voice trails off to a pleasing hum in the background of Gerry’s thought process as it dawns on him that maybe there _is_ such a thing as a skill he can put on his CV. One that doesn’t immediately have to do with events straight out of the Conjuring. _‘Another language.’_ He knows a few of those.

The words burst forth from his mouth in puffs of smoke. “I actually do know a few languages. Latin, Sanskrit, French, Italian, Spanish, a _little_ bit of Mandarin…” He trails off as he feels the increasingly heavy weight of Oliver’s eyes on him. When he glances up, the expression on the face staring back at him looks… _awed_? 

That can’t be right, can it?

The glimmer in the eyes, the slightly parted lips, the eyebrows raised just a degree short of skepticism…it all lines up. A question blooms and tumbles from his throat: “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“ _Gerry_ …” Oliver’s voice trails off with an incredulous laugh. Jaw setting almost imperceptibly, rooted in purposeful focus, he gently extricates his hand from Gerry’s in order to dedicate both to typing. Graceful fingers tap rhythmically away at the keyboard of his computer for a moment, eyes tracing down the screen. Then, with a little flourish as he finishes, he spins the screen to face Gerry.

It’s a CV. _A completed one_ , with “Gerard Keay” sprawled across the top of the first page starting on the left side. A section on education, work experience, hobbies, and skills. A little clipart image of a paintbrush. A list of all of the languages he’s spoken up about knowing.

It’s neat. It’s organized. It’s the most _ordinary_ document Gerry’s ever seen associated with his entire fear-choked existence, and he’s…tearing up. _Why is he tearing up?_

Before Gerry can puzzle together the reasons why drops of saltwater are sizzling against his burning cheeks, Oliver’s eyes have widened in concern and he’s leaning across the table to enclose Gerry’s hand in both of his own. The worry lines on his brow have deepened into fault lines, and the breath in Gerry’s lungs catches in his throat as he realizes how _close_ Oliver has gotten, seemingly without conscious thought about bridging the distance between them.

Every twinkle of emotion in those earthdark eyes, every tense strand of the braids brushed to one side of his head, every slight tremble in his hands screams with concern – concern Gerry knows is justified. Concern he has _no idea_ how to respond to.

In absence of knowing how to act, whether he should reassure that he’s alright or be honest, Gerry lets his eyes fall closed and his forehead drop to rest against Oliver’s.

“Thank you,” he whispers, the words tumbling from his mouth as quietly as a shallow breath in peaceful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me @avatarofthebeholding on tumblr where I will NOT shut up about this au (& GerryOliver in general)


	10. Stars and Silences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The nightmares haven’t stopped, but the domesticity of daytime routine makes them a little more bearable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Angel (verboseDescription) & Nicole (brunetteauthorette99) for beta reading!
> 
> Song Recommendation: "Mi Lugar Favorito" by Natalia Lafourcade
> 
> ( _"Es absurdo intentar/Comprender lo que siento/Solo sé que es honesto/Eres mi lugar favorito en este mundo/Tú me llevas tan lejos" - "It's absurd to try/To comprehend what I feel/I only know that it's honest/You are my favorite place in the world/You take me so far"_ )

The Keystone is always quiet on Sundays. When he’d worked here before, Oliver had often found himself staring out the front window – that is, until a passerby with black veins laced over their forehead or neck forced him to redirect his gaze in horror. To try to distract himself from the inevitable trace of death across living skin.

Now, he passes the time between weekend customers watching Gerry paint tarot cards. Currently, he’s in the middle of crafting a major arcana set – for the past couple days he’s been working on his design for the Star. It’s simultaneously simple and intricate, depicting two hands cupped together just under the base of a 4-pointed star. In the middle of the star sits a small, remarkably detailed eye. “XVII” shines at the top of the card in neat, slanted calligraphy.

Roman numerals and titles on the cards often take Gerry the longest to complete; he seems to be more used to depicting abstract ideas than he is to putting concrete words down on paper. Sometimes he'll sit and work for hours on the same letter.

At the moment, he’s unconsciously tugging at his lip ring with his front teeth as he carefully crafts the “r” in “star” with silver acrylic paint. Each brushstroke is methodical yet soft with artistry. His delicate fingers shake slightly at times, but less so now that he’s invested in a pair of compression gloves.

Oliver smiles to himself at how utterly at home Gerry seems, how much peace has seeped into his features. His face scrunches in frustration sometimes, courtesy of a botched letter or line; still, his demeanor is worlds away from how flinching and fearful it was when he led Oliver over the threshold of Pinhole Books for the first time.

It’s May, now, and that incident is two months in the past. Still, it made a large enough imprint on Oliver’s mind that he still thinks of it every day. And every day, he reminds himself – with a quiet, happy pride – just how far Gerry has come since Gertrude’s funeral.

The nightmares haven’t stopped, but the domesticity of daytime routine makes them a little more bearable.

Oliver feels the grounding force of Anahita’s presence before her hand falls on his shoulder. “Hey.”

“Hello.” He gives a warm smile and then goes back to concentrating on Gerry’s painting process – that is, until Anahita’s voice sounds in his ears again.

“Has Gerry taken a break yet today?”

“I, uh… well, I don’t think so.”

“Oliver, it’s been _6 hours_.”

Gerry’s chimes in himself then, lifting one hand to wave away concerns as he intones, “S’fine; I really don’t need one.”

Unconvinced, Anahita plants her hands on her hips, fixing Gerry with an expression equal parts playful and serious. “As your manager, I am _telling_ you to take a break.”

“ _Okay, okay_.” Gerry lets out a small, sighing laugh and reluctantly raises both hands in exaggerated surrender, prompting Oliver to chuckle under his breath in spite of himself.

“Good.” Anahita turns over her heel and walks resolutely towards her office at the back of the store.

Then, Gerry mumbles, “… _After_ I finish this card.”

How Anahita is able to hear the declaration is beyond Oliver but hear it she does. “ _Gerry Delano_ , I swear to- “

Gerry, as always, brightens at the use of “Delano” in place of “Keay,” and the sternness in Anahita’s expression softens as her eyes glimmer with compassion.

Oliver takes advantage of both Gerry and Anahita’s momentarily averted attention to pluck Gerry’s paintbrush out of his hand. He makes a little surprised sound and gives Oliver a half-hearted glare, a smile still present in the corners of his eyes.

Anahita lets out a rush of hearty laughter. Then, after an exasperatedly fond, “ _Take your break, Ger,_ ” she’s once again starting towards her office.

“ _Fine_ ,” Gerry sighs, gingerly setting the almost-completed card on the table behind him.

Wordlessly, Oliver hands him a water bottle. He looks pleasantly surprised by the gesture.

“Thank you,” he breathes, achingly genuine in his gratitude.

The magnitude with which Gerry appreciates the smallest gestures of kindness – whether it be the change of a surname in conversation or small offerings of physical sustenance – will never fail to send a sharp pang of sorrow through Oliver’s heart. He lets the feeling pass in a wave before asking Gerry something that’s been on his mind for a while: “Do you want to change your last name to Delano? Legally, I mean. It _is_ an option.”

Glancing sideways at Oliver, Gerry deadpans, “Since when do I care about doing anything _legally_?”

“Fair enough.”

“Really, I just don’t see the point. Too many people know me as ‘Gerard Keay’ already. Going by ‘Delano’ _here_ is enough.” Gerry leans back in his chair with a little shrug, letting his eyelids flutter closed. “Wake me when it’s spooky art time again."

Oliver hums in acknowledgment of the words but doesn’t make any promises. There’s no way he’s _not_ going to let Gerry sleep for as long as he needs to – as long as he _can_.

The shop stays almost dead. About half an hour after Gerry falls asleep, Anahita comes up to the front to keep Oliver company.

She glances in Gerry’s direction and gives a little chuckle, hair swishing side to side as she shakes her head. “He really did just fall asleep _right there_ , huh?”

“Yeah. Yeah, he did.” Oliver forces down the hint of bitterness that burns his throat at the assertion. _It isn’t justified_ , he reminds himself, _to be jealous of that._

Oliver doesn’t sleep much these days, too haunted by dreams for the thought of closing his eyes to feel like a comfort anymore.

“Oliver?” The voice is warm and concerned. Anahita must have registered that something’s wrong, because _of course_ she would – her intuition never fails, and it’s quite frankly frustrating sometimes.

“I’m fine.” Tired smile. Hope that it looks genuine. Affection, but not happiness.

“No, you’re not.” Frustrated sigh. Mouth set in a hard line. “Don’t think I don’t see the exhaustion clouding your eyes, the way you drift from consciousness when you think nobody’s watching.”

“It’s not really something I can talk about, or explain.” Oliver rubs at his temples, as if somehow the gesture can soothe away the lines etched into his skin by stress.

“Try me.” There is a stubbornness clenched in her jaw, storming in her eyes, and he knows he’ll have to tell her everything someday. But today – like most days lately – he can’t find the reserves of strength to relay his stories.

“I will. I just don’t have the energy right now.”

A moment of silence passes, and then Anahita gives Oliver a pat on the shoulder before returning to her office. The message is clear: she’s let the matter drop, a wave breaking upon a shore. Something that will build and crash again one day. Something kept at bay for now.

Gerry wakes half an hour before closing, rubbing his eyes and immediately asking, “What _time_ is it?”

“5:30 pm,” Oliver replies cheerfully.

“Oliver. You were _supposed_ to wake me up.”

“I never actually said I _would_. You needed the rest.”

“… Fair enough.” Gerry sighs, leaning back against the chair he’s still sitting in. Oliver reaches out to ruffle his hair, and his heart leaps with warm surprise when Gerry leans into the touch. He’s used to hair-ruffling being met with laughter and friendly batting hands, not _this_.

Whatever ‘this’ is.

He lets his hand still, letting out a shaky exhale. Gerry tilts his head up in response, gray eyes gleaming with answers to questions Oliver has no idea how to ask.

The silence stretches, squarely between comfortable and uncomfortable, until a group of people outside breaks it by chattering by the shop.

“I should probably finish the Star,” Gerry murmurs thoughtfully.

Oliver gives a quick nod of affirmation – he knows Gerry likes to have some sort of closure with his work at the end of each day.

The last brushstroke on the “r” is finished just before Anahita flips the sign in the store window from “open” to “closed” on her way out the door. Ten minutes later, Gerry and Oliver follow.

Oliver flips the lightswitch to “off” as they leave the shop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me @avatarofthebeholding on tumblr where I will NOT shut up about this au (& GerryOliver in general)


	11. The Limitations of Foresight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver makes a dire prediction and gets an unexpected surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Important CW for this one: There's a character death, specifically via head trauma.** And it's NOT Oliver or Gerry I PROMISE. It's not graphically described either, but there are mentions of blood. If you need to skip it, it's between "Oliver walks her out to the main room of the shop" and "Not breathing." 
> 
> Thank you SO MUCH to Nicole (BrunetteAuthorette99), Angel (verboseDescription), & Ron (pyrites) for all beta reading this for me! <3
> 
> Song Recommendation: "Can't Stop Now - Digital Concert" by Allie X
> 
> ( _"Seen so much I can't forget/This gallery inside my head/.../So I focus on the next thing, I/Remember to keep breathing/.../There's only one way up/Only one way down/I don't know where to go/I can't stop now"_ )

Oliver tries to ignore the slight trembling of his hands as he shuffles the tarot deck, willing himself to remain professional in front of the latest customer who has come to him for a reading.

When he’d first decided to go along with Gerry’s idea to offer both their services and Sight to the shop as tarot card readers, he had thought he could handle any death that might walk into the store. He’d seen the careful grace that Gerry handled customers with – the way he subtly pursed his lips when he detected a fear mark and proceeded to impart advice through the guise of a reading – and thought that he might be able to do the same.

He’d hoped to be able to warn people before it was too late to stop their deaths.

His hope has waned significantly since then. Everyone who has come to him covered in branching black veins has died in spite of his efforts. Every time he’s looked up the name of a customer he told of impending demise, he’s found an obituary.

In the present, Oliver tries to focus on his breathing. When that fails, he centers himself around the feel of the deck of cards in his hands as he shuffles them. His vision lands appreciatively on the way their dark surfaces give off flashes of silver, the eye design on the back of each card rendered in meticulous detail work. He’s never been more grateful that Anahita bought Gerry’s first painted tarot deck herself to use at the shop – it gives assuagement in moments like this.

Still, he finds himself aimless in his shuffling, almost dropping cards onto the ground.

It’s hard to concentrate when the person he’s doing a reading for has a bloodblack tendril curled around her neck, he muses, especially given she’s completely unaware of it. Especially given the hopeless history of his prior predictions in this place.

She’s _smiling_ at him, eyes alight with life. There is a determined edge to her face that speaks to difficult past experience, a slightly haunted watchfulness to her gaze that lets him know she’s seen _something_. 

She’d introduced herself as Marianne with a West-Coast American accent, stiffening a bit when she mentioned visiting the UK “on business” only to relax back into what she’s decided to portray as her default demeanor.

Oliver doesn’t usually study people – well, _customers_ , anyway – this closely, but paying attention to Marianne’s physical mannerisms has kept his mind from fixing itself on the End she will soon be facing. He doesn’t know how to effectively warn her, doesn’t know if he should even _bother_.

His concentration grows almost impossible to hold onto once he hands off the deck to Marianne to shuffle. She tells him she wants to know what to expect for the rest of her business trip here, and that she’ll value any advice he gives her.

Even without reading the cards she will eventually pull, Oliver has one solid prediction about the trip – namely, how it will conclude.

She wants a three-card spread for decision-making: concise, insightful, meaningful.

_Card 1 – strengths – the Moon, upright._

Inbreath. Exhale. Make eye contact. “You have a strong intuition, a connection to the unconscious.”

Something in Marianne’s eyes shifts into deep focus, as if the card’s meaning has solidified the truth of Oliver’s predictions for her. It’s interesting and disconcerting in equal measures, relief that she will likely take his advice combined with dread that it may not matter. He continues to outline the meanings of the card, watching her nod along in slight awe. She looks at him like he’s reading her soul. Perhaps he _is_ reading her soul. At this point, he has no idea of the extent of his abilities.

He hasn’t particularly felt like trying to test the limits of what he can do, given how much of his power seems to be connected to other people’s deaths.

_Card 2 – weaknesses – the Eight of Cups, upright._

Inbreath. Exhale. Make eye contact, trying not to betray the growing dread in his heart. “You have a sense of being trapped, unable to escape the situation in which you have found yourself. You feel like you have no other option than the choice you’re currently making.”

Marianne swallows hard, giving another nod of her head – a more solemn one this time.

 _Card 3 – advice – the Wheel of Fortune, reversed_.

An inevitable turn of the wheel, as he had feared. An end – the end of the woman sitting in front of him.

Inbreath. Exhale. Brace to make a dire prediction.

“Something will happen soon, and it will be beyond your prediction or prevention.”

Marianne’s face blanches, and she looks closer to the dead now.

Fitting, perhaps. Every moment _does_ bring her closer to the dead.

Oliver sits silent for a moment, trying to ease into his grim advice – the only counsel he can offer, given the circumstances.

“Given my past experiences with spreads of this sort, I suggest you get your affairs in order. Write a will, call any family you have. You are at the bottom of the wheel of fortune right now, and it is doubtful you will ever climb back up.”

Marianne gasps a little. Then, without another word to Oliver, eyes unfocusing as the vein pulsing into her forehead grows larger, she rushes out of the Keystone without paying for her reading.

Still sitting at the table, he hears the careful rustling of Gerry setting down his painting supplies in the main room of the shop. A moment later, clear grey eyes peek around the corner with curious concern.

Oliver gets to his feet steadily, filled with new energy – emotionally drained, yet physically sustained. It never makes sense, the way his body and emotions war after people flee frightened from the shop. Gerry seems to see the turmoil behind the regained strength, crossing the room in seconds to throw his arms around Oliver’s waist in a comforting gesture.

Oliver curls his arms around Gerry’s shoulders in response, letting the lightness of the feelings that envelop him cut through the heavy weight of guilt settled in his stomach.

* * *

Twenty minutes before closing time, a young woman walks into the Keystone and asks Oliver if he can do a quick reading for her. She’s free of branching veins, surrounded by a charmingly theatrical air.

She asks for a three-card spread, like Marianne did, but it’s of a different sort – it’s a reading of the past. With a teasing little smile that flashes between lips painted dark plum, one eyebrow arched in playful challenge, she wonders aloud how much about her past the cards can get right.

_Card 1 – what worked – the Hierophant, reversed._

Ah. A rebellious soul. He could have guessed that from the way she carries herself – shoulders thrown back proudly, walking in spiky heeled boots as if she was born with them.

“You’ve been successful in subverting tradition, in breaking cycles and rebelling.”

The woman lets out a burst of resonant laughter. “Surely you didn’t need the cards to tell you _that_.”

“Fair enough, though I can’t quite choose what they decide to reveal to me.” In spite of himself, in spite of the day he’s had, Oliver finds himself letting out an amused chuckle as some of the tension seeps out of his body.

_Card 2 – what didn’t work – Four of Wands, reversed._

Oh. A lack of support in her choices, then. Oliver can only hope his interpretation of this card won’t drudge up bitter memories – won’t ruin the casual banter he’s been enjoying with this new customer.

“You found yourself without support in the wake of your decisions. There was conflict at home, and then you left, drifting transient for awhile.”

The woman simply laughs again, though this time the sound rings a little more bitter. “Of course, my dear family. They simply couldn’t fathom me deciding to be anything _but_ their perfect little daughter.” A flash of hurt briefly crosses her face, but it is soon swept away to make room for her dominant expression – heavy-lidded eyes half-closed but alert, lips turned up in a half-smile, forehead smooth.

Relief wells up in Oliver’s throat, and he gives a smile that he hopes comes across as reassuring and grateful.

It is a rare person who can hear of the hurtful past and react so mildly.

_Card 3 – key learnings – Death, upright._

“Through rebellion, and through breaking traditions, you have learned metamorphosis. You have learned to transform, to start over again and again. You have learned not to fear the change you know is constant.”

“ _Exactly_. Why fear what you know is inevitable?”

The words are said lightly, but the sentiment carries weight. Oliver finds himself nodding in agreement. 

After the woman pays for the reading, Oliver walks her out to the main room of the shop. He’s just about to offer to call her a cab, aware of the darkness that has fallen outside, when the toe of one of her shoes catches on the edge of a rug and she pitches headfirst into the corner of the front counter. There is a sickening crack as her skull makes impact, a collapse, and then she’s laying glassy-eyed on the floor, blood pooling behind her head.

Not breathing.

 _Not breathing_.

Oliver’s own breath hitches in his throat as he feels his heart speed up, shocked and confused and absolutely _horrified_ by the sight before him. He sees death _everywhere_ – sees it even when he doesn’t want to.

And now…now _this_.

Now he’s standing in front of a corpse who gave no sign she was about to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me @avatarofthebeholding on tumblr where I will NOT shut up about this au (& GerryOliver in general)


	12. Threads of Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not everybody relies on such simple things as breathing to get by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH to Angel (verboseDescription), Nicole (BrunetteAuthorette99), & Ron (pyrites) for beta reading this for me, and also to Parker (CuttlefishKitch) for listening to me read my rough draft out loud! Also, shoutout to Ren (renwhit) for writing [RTD](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1594225), which is AMAZING & helped me get more comfortable thinking/writing about the End as a fear.
> 
> Song Recommendations: "Grim Reaper" by Suzi Wu and "Pretty Little Head" by Eliza Rickman
> 
> ( _"Grim Reaper in a backwards hat/Landing kick-flips on my psyche cracks/.../Oh, maybe I sold my soul/Maybe you need control/Mortality takes its toll/I just need everything"_ )
> 
> ( _"Boy, where's your mother?/Fall down dead/Dirty mind, dirty mouth, pretty little head/.../Take a breath, my heart, and hold your tongue"_ )
> 
> If you're curious about what Ria's deal is, check out the 3 oneshots involving her that I've added to the Down to the Root AU series!
> 
> cws at the end of the chapter

Startled gasps echo through Ria’s ears as she lays limp on the floor. The throbbing pain at the back of her head is soon forgotten as her senses cloud with the sweet, intoxicating terror that seeps from the two souls in the room with her.

One of them is the Coroner – Oliver, he’d introduced himself as – but he’s still so human it hurts just to _look_ at. Still afraid, vulnerable, and apparently unaccustomed to dealing with death when it occurs in front of him. When Rosie had mentioned he needed “a bit of a push” towards the End, Ria hadn’t expected _this_ level of fragility.

It’s silly, really. The End’s Coroner, gasping in horror at the aftermath of her calculated collapse. She’d laugh if she weren’t so committed to playing the role of a bleeding corpse.

This particular performance is easier than some – she’s had to suffer through so many _frustrating_ displays of concern in the past. Just a week ago, someone called the paramedics to come “save” her when she very clearly had a broken neck and no pulse.

Dumbstruck horror, at least, is easier to tolerate than misguided attempts to help.

She’s just starting to debate whether or not she should get up off of the ground and properly introduce herself when the needling feeling of being watched – no, _scrutinized_ – hums through her mind.

Then a voice from above her, soft but edged with apprehension, announces, “Oliver, she’s not dead.”

Ah. That’d be Gerard. Rosie wasn’t kidding about him being powerful.

“What do you mean she’s not –” There is a pause in speech, the sound of a couple footsteps forward, and then two fingers are against her neck checking for a pulse. “Gerry, she’s not _breathing_.” The Coroner – Oliver, Ria supposes she should get used to calling him – sounds incredulous and hopeful in equal measures.

No wonder Gerard is such a threat to Oliver’s transformation… there is no room for _hope_ among the avatars of Terminus.

Ignoring the lightheadedness invoked by blood continuing to rush from her head wound, Ria leaps up before any more about her can be Seen. “Not everybody relies on such simple things as _breathing_ to get by, you know.”

Oliver tries to stifle a gasp, scrambling to his feet and promptly stumbling backwards. He does, however, maintain a better poker face than Gerard (who shoots her a silver-tinged, piercing glare, shoulders arched defensively).

His first instinct was to shy away from her, to seek protection in the arms of his Beholding-aligned companion. Hmm. He really _is_ going to take more work than she initially planned.

“Who are you?” Gerard’s voice is low and cautious, eyes never moving from Ria’s even as he traces reassuring patterns on Oliver’s shoulder with one hand.

Ria responds how best she knows how to – in action. Specifically, with her eyes (because what more could a Beholding avatar ask for?) She lets their dark brown hue bleed into deep, bloody crimson, pairing the shift with a smile.

Both Gerard and Oliver exude spikes of shocked fear at the sight. They _are_ , however, keeping their physical composure fairly well. So, with a sigh, Ria wills the wound at the back of her head to close up, letting the fresh horror coursing through her veins knit bone back together. Then, she extends a still bloodied hand to Oliver.

Gerard’s eyes narrow. Oliver gives him a weak smile, attempting some semblance of reassurance.

How cute.

Ria continues to let her hand hang in the air until Oliver takes it, and there _is_ something kindred in his cold-tinged grip. He is, no doubt, one of the End’s – just a little lost at the moment.

 _Well_. She’ll help him find his way again.

“Ria Mirti, otherwise known as the Casualty.” She gives a little curtsy, hands poised at the edges of her leather skirt in an exaggeration of demureness.

“Rather _dramatic_ for one of the End’s ilk,” Gerard huffs under his breath.

Oliver looks more conflicted now. Good. “Gerry… she might be able to help me. To _understand_.”

“Yeah, and then lead you straight into Spooky Death Land.”

Gerard isn’t _wrong_. Ria doesn’t see any reason to be so uptight about that observation, though.

“Everybody goes to ‘Spooky Death Land’ in the end,” she points out with a challenging look.

“She isn’t wrong, you know,” Oliver sighs, turning to offer Gerard another little smile – more resigned than weak this time.

“No. No, I guess she’s not.”

Ria lets that affirmation sink into the room for a moment before continuing along her script. “I just moved to town, you see. And from what I heard, the tarot readings at this shop are remarkably accurate when it comes to predicting deaths.”

Internally, she side-eyes the silky way the lie rolls off her tongue. The Web has long since threaded itself almost as deeply into her psyche as the End.

It makes sense, of course. Inevitability rules fate, and she is its puppet.

… And while she’s been musing to herself, Oliver and Gerard continue to stare blankly at her. Right. She still has a _bit_ of explaining to do.

“I figured I’d come here and see if all the predictions stemmed from the source I thought they did – namely, another End avatar. And lo and – well, lo and _behold_ – “ she lets herself laugh for a moment at the initially unintentional pun, “– here you are.”

* * *

Another customer runs past Ria and out of the Keystone without paying, face blanched with terror. Third person in one day. Impressive. Ria lets herself soak in some of their fear before going to check on Oliver – he never _means_ to scare people, apparently, so there’s always a good deal of guilt he endures after each meal.

Well, for now anyway.

Upon reaching the doorway to the room where readings take place, Ria swings open the door to find Oliver sitting at the table inside with his head in his hands.

Pushing back an exasperated sigh, willing herself to remember that he doesn’t understand who and _what_ he is yet, she pulls up a chair next to him.

“It’s the only way to keep yourself strong, you know.”

Oliver's head snaps up, eyes guarded as he glances over at her. “What?” His tone is pleasant enough, but Ria can hear the slight apprehension that creeps into it. He doesn't trust her yet.

She supposes that's fair - it's only been a couple of days since she first introduced herself.

“Feeding on fear. That’s what we do – servants of Smirke’s fourteen, puppets, avatars…what _ever_ you decide to call what we are.”

“So I've been told.” Oliver lets out a sigh, propping his head up on one hand. “I can learn to live with it, I suppose. It just…doesn’t feel quite right, y’know?”

His eyes are heavy-lidded, a pleading spark at their corners – a hopeful reach towards familiarity and comfort. Ria cannot give him what he wants. He’ll have to unlearn the need for comfort, and she doesn’t have the luxury of empathy to spare.

“No.” No, she doesn’t know. No, she won’t let him give in to his weaknesses. Hesitation won’t help him escape from what he is - what he will inevitably become. It will only cause him pain.

He has a long road ahead of him, to be sure, but there’s no reason that road should have to hurt.

“Oh. Alright.” There is resignation behind the light chuckle Oliver gives with his response.

Ria can’t afford to feel sorry for him. She’s here to help, not to nurture – to provide perspective, not to hold his hand through the difficult parts. Still, she explains herself. It’s beyond her why she chooses to do so, but perhaps it isn’t choice at all. It’s just an action she’s moved to take. So she takes it.

“Fear’s not inherently bad,” she blurts out, breaking the grim silence of the room. “And it’s not like you’re choosing to make your customers freak out; they just can’t handle being told that they’re going to die just like everyone else in this world.”

Oliver nods. The words don’t seem to have fully sunken in, given his still-sullen expression and slumped shoulders.

With a pat on the shoulder and a casual, “See you tomorrow!,” Ria is on her feet and out of the room. The seed of an idea – of a truth – has been planted. She just needs to give Oliver time to see it root itself and bloom.

Fear is not inherently bad.

Fear is a means of subsisting.

You cannot take responsibility for what scares a person, but you can hone and make use of the terror they project.

It isn’t good. It isn’t bad. It simply _is_ , as the End is simply what _will be_.

Inevitable.

Catching the aura of someone frightened of mortality on the edge of her conscious senses, Ria breaks out of her own thoughts to purposefully take one wrong step on the staircase she’s just started walking down.

The cycle of death and undeath continues, an unspoken contract between the Casualty and Terminus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW:  
> \- mentions of blood (again, specifically head trauma)  
> \- Ria very casually mentions a couple of her temporary deaths - not in great detail, but it _does_ come up
> 
> find me @avatarofthebeholding on tumblr where I will NOT shut up about this au (& GerryOliver in general)


	13. Collision Theory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before today, despite all of the marks of death Oliver had seen, he had been able to assert that he’d never touched a corpse. He supposes that’s no longer the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A HUGE thank you to Ron (pyrites), Parker (CuttlefishKitch), Angel (verboseDescription), Ren (renwhit), Nicole (BrunetteAuthorette99), and Chiara (shreylock) for critiquing, editing, and helping me revise this chapter, because yesterday it was an absolute MESS.  
>  **cw: mentions of blood, temporary character death, brief mentions of injuries that could POTENTIALLY be disturbing** (It's no worse than "The Limitations of Foresight.")
> 
> Song Recommendation: "Bad Blood" by Bastille
> 
> ( _"Oh, but how were we to know/That these are the days that bind us together, forever/And these little things define us/.../I don't want to hear about the bad blood anymore/I don't want to hear you talk about it anymore"_ )

Fresh silver lines glisten along the edges of the knight of swords card Gerry has just started painting, and he gingerly sets his brush down to lean back and study them. Oliver’s hand rests solidly on his shoulder, heavy but gentle.

And then it tightens, just perceptibly enough to snap Gerry back into the present moment. He tilts his head up to glance at Oliver, concerned at the sudden shift in presence, and sees an ashen face with eyes focused on the Keystone’s door.

Following Oliver’s line of sight, Gerry finds himself looking right at Ria – an unsettling presence, to be sure, but a familiar one by now. The Casualty, as she calls herself, has become a regular part of day-to-day life at the Keystone, to Oliver’s and his own continued unease.

“What are you doing here, Ria?” He fixes her with a questioning gaze, drawing as much on the Eye’s insight as he can. No new Knowledge leaps out at him, and Ria herself just gives a sardonic smile.

“I’m here to see my friend,” she intones brightly, eyes flitting away from Gerry to focus on Oliver.

A pang of unease rings through Gerry’s core, and he continues to study Ria’s appearance, searching for anything that might explain the haunted look on Oliver’s face.

She seems no more out-of-the-ordinary than usual – still the same marks, skull design supernaturally etched into the soul fabric of her forehead and outline of bones visible through her skin. There’s just one blank space – at the hollow of her neck, where a jeweled skull pendant attached to a tightly woven choker necklace usually sits.

She radiates death. It’s unsettling. He almost died himself, once, saved only by a treatment that deeply scarred him. Left behind by the world he’d grown up in because he almost fell to a threat that wasn’t even supernatural. Every close call beforehand firmly rooted in otherworldly terror, the closest of them all a result of not paying close enough attention to the mundane.

Gerry glances away from Ria and back to Oliver, whose hand is still shaking almost imperceptibly upon his shoulder. He brings one of his own up to cover it. Oliver looks at him with eyes wide as saucers, teeming with fear in a way they usually only are after he wakes up from a dream.

“I – uh – I need to talk to Ria. I’ll be right back.” His voice is bright and conversational, but the attempt at reassurance falls on deaf ears. Gerry can _see_ the clenched teeth behind his words. He raises one eyebrow – _really, you think_ that’s _going to convince me you’re okay?_ – then lowers it abruptly when even more color drains from Oliver’s face in response to the unasked question.

“Okay,” he concedes. “Just… don’t die on me.”

Oliver gives a faint smile before turning to leave. Gerry runs a thumb over the knuckles of the hand that’s been on his shoulder before letting go. 

* * *

London teems with life and death alike as Oliver and Ria make their way down the sidewalk. The minute he’d approached the Keystone’s door, she had spun around and started walking down the boulevard, motioning for him to follow.

He hadn’t wanted to follow, but he’d felt like he had to. Now, he’s walking side-by-side with her in silence. The little smirk on her face tells Oliver that he’s going to have to be the one to bring up the change he’s seen in her.

“I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me why you’re suddenly covered in veins?” He poses the question as offhandedly as possible, knowing that the quicker he regains outward composure, the quicker she’ll move on from cryptic gloating to actually giving him answers.

She isn’t fooled quite yet. “You know _exactly_ why I’m covered in veins,” she says with a laugh. “Don’t play dumb. I know you dream about them. I know you _know_ what they mean.”

“They mean you’re going to die soon.”

“Exactly!”

“Ria, you told me you die at least three times a day.”

“… And your point is?”

“I’ve never seen the veins on you before – not when I gave your reading, not when I first saw you die, and none of the following times you’ve been at the Keystone.”

“Oh, that.” Ria’s casually teasing air is beginning to grate on Oliver’s nerves, but he forces himself to stay calm. 

“Yes, _that_.” He hopes his reply hits as dryly sarcastic, internally sighing with relief when Ria coughs out a little chuckle in spite of herself.

She nods her head, as if to signify he’s given the correct response to advance the conversation, before saying, “I’m touched by more than one entity, y’know.”

“And?” Oliver gives an overexaggerated sigh, playing into the dramatics of Ria’s stilted answers.

“I wore a Web artefact the first time I came into the shop, and all the times after that. Didn’t want to scare you right off the bat.”

“Hmm. I don’t believe you. I think you wanted to startle me.”

Ria raises her hands in mock surrender, almost swinging her left arm into a passerby. “You got me! It worked, didn’t it.”

“Oh, it worked alright.” Oliver gently tugs her away from the passerby she almost hit, who has stopped the middle of the sidewalk to glare at her.

They walk in relative silence until Ria’s voice rings out with a question that catches Oliver aback: “What do they look like on me?”

“What do… what do _what_ look like on you?”

She tosses her ponytail with a sigh, rolling her eyes as she turns to look at him. “The _veins_.”

“They’re…dark. Pulsing, bit of a crimson sheen.”

“You’re not even looking.”

“I am.”

“Corner of your eye doesn’t count, Oliver.” Ria tries to dodge into his line of vision. He very pointedly turns his gaze to the side.

“I don’t need to look. I see them enough.”

“Yes, but do you ever see them on another End avatar?”

“I don’t know any others – just you.”

“Case in point! Aren’t you curious?”

“Curiosity got me into this mess. If I had just stayed at the top of Canary Wharf in that dream…” Oliver trails off. No point in talking about it now; what’s done is done. “Going back over it won’t change anything.”

“Exactly. So, why not move forward?”

“That’s what I’m doing.”

“It isn’t, not really.” Ria’s voice comes from the opposite side of Oliver than she was previously on. Startled, he looks to his right to see her walking along the edge of the curb next to him. She turns to him with a knowing smile, balanced on the edge of the busy street. “Moving forward would be accepting the role you’ve found yourself in.”

She gives a little twirl, stance even more precarious than before as she lifts one foot in the air. Oliver has to clench his jaw to keep from shouting for her to stop, to be _careful_.

Ria raises an eyebrow at him, as if daring him to say something. “I can feel your fear, you know. Imagine how much easier it would be if you could feed on that instead of exuding it.”

There’s another spin, a slight tumble out of it, a little giggle from Ria at Oliver’s following involuntary gasp. “It’s everywhere, the threat of death. The _reality_ of death. There’s no escaping it, Oli.”

Oliver flinches at the familiarity of the nickname - at the notion that the person in front of him considers him a friend, is speaking conversationally to him as if she didn’t introduce herself by bleeding out on the Keystone’s floor. 

Ria’s balance on the curb wavers, the ground slipping out from underneath her as one ankle turns the wrong way. She falls towards the street, flung into the path of oncoming traffic. Oliver has a moment to think about crying out in warning - and a moment to realize it doesn’t matter - before the car hits her.

All hell breaks loose in an instant, civilians screaming and the driver of the car slamming on their brakes too late and the veins along Ria’s neck expanding with each wave of fear the sight of her body inspires. When he catches her eyes, glassy and undoubtedly dead, he almost jumps at the conspiratorial wink she gives him. As if he’s a part of this. As if he’s ever _wanted_ to be a part of this.

Ignoring the horror that churns in his gut, he grits his teeth and slowly backs away, transfixed in spite of himself by the sight of people crowding around her. He draws on every last reserve of calm within him not to scream as she gets up off the ground and walks towards him. Cries of “don’t move” and “you’re injured” and “call 911,” all directed at Ria, surround Oliver in a wave of harsh, grating sound. He tries his hardest to block it out, turning around to head back towards the Keystone and away from this waking nightmare.

As he walks, trying to steady his breathing as the world before him remains hazy, he’s pulled back into himself by a cold hand on his shoulder and a whispered, triumphant, “How do they look _now_?” The words are gritty, spoken through a voice box that should be shredded given the natures of the injuries Ria sustained, and Oliver has to force down a shiver. He continually wills himself, with varying degrees of success, not to look at the tendrils of death that surround her head, but they don’t do him the courtesy of ignoring him completely.

As she walks next to him, he feels them wrap around his arms, colder than ice. _Patient_ is the word that comes to mind, like the thin line between a frozen-over pond and drowning.

Before today, despite all of the marks of death Oliver had seen, he had been able to assert that he’d never touched a corpse. He supposes that’s no longer the truth. That realization chills him to the bone as veins continue to engulf him, as they weave themselves around his neck and his fingers. Vaguely, he registers Ria sewing herself back together with the strength given by newly consumed fear. He doesn’t try to get away from her. He doesn’t think he _could_.

“What the hell was _that_?” he hisses eventually.

“You weren’t paying attention. You weren’t looking at me.”

“So you decided to _run out into traffic_?!”

“Yes. And you’re talking to a corpse while walking through the streets of London.”

She’s not wrong. Oliver huffs in disapproving agreement and falls silent, letting the bustle of the world around him fade as he tries to slow his heartbeat down. At one point, he looks to his side to see Ria perfectly intact again – albeit still absolutely _covered_ in blood.

Shakily, he reenters the world in full, and is immediately struck with the realization that there are still veins on Ria. This time, they stem from her stomach. _Right_. She has at least three deaths a day. This was only the first.

“The veins look different now, don’t they?”

“They do.”

Ria laughs, as if this is some delightful game – this dying and coming back, playing I-spy with marks of imminent demise, flippantly disrupting the peace of civilians… and something in Oliver hardens.

As they reach the Keystone, he rushes inside, slamming the door behind him. He barely hears the start of a gasp as it shuts completely.

Gerry’s head snaps up from his painting, and he momentarily brings one hand up to his temple with a wince before fixing Oliver with a gaze equal parts concerned and questioning.

Oliver opens his mouth to speak, but the only sound that comes out is choked and incoherent. So he dashes into the shop bathroom and locks the door behind him, bringing his hands to rest on either side of the sink with a shuddering breath.

* * *

As the bells above the door of the Keystone jangle in cacophony, Gerry turns his head from where Oliver has just locked himself in the shop bathroom to where Ria stands wide-eyed in the doorway, covered in dried blood.

Rising slowly to his feet, he walks towards the front of the shop until he stands a few feet away – far enough for safety, but close enough to speak without yelling. Keeping one hand braced on the marble of the counter, he draws himself up to full height and looks her dead in the eye with a pointed, “What did you _do_?” 

He almost winces at how accusatory his voice sounds. Then he remembers Oliver’s face from minutes ago – terror-stricken and helpless, even in the presence of someone he knew would support him – and feels any regret he might have had go up in flames.

“I just _died_. You’d think he’d never seen it before.” Ria’s tone is casual, as always. Gerry has no patience for her grotesque levity.

“You _died_? While out walking in the middle of London?” He knows the answer to this question, but he still wants to hear her say it. Still wants proof to support his suspicions about the reason Oliver ran from him.

“I do it all the time!”

“Not when you’re _with_ someone else!” Gerry gives a frustrated sigh, raking a hand through his hair as he feels his grip on the counter turn whiteknuckle tight. 

“That’s–”

“What, you just thought ‘oh time to die’ without considering the impact it might have?” Gerry’s voice rings unpleasantly harsh as it resonates in his ears. He can’t bring himself to care.

“I thought he’d be able to handle it! I’m sorry he couldn’t!”

“What made you think he’d be able to ‘handle it’?” Gerry barely stifles a cold laugh at the thought that Oliver - compassionate, careful Oliver - would _ever_ react with nonchalance to someone’s life ending right in front of him.

“I said I was sorry!” Ria’s pitch is frantically escalating, eyes turned crimson as she tries to make her presence intimidating. “He has to learn, though.”

Unimpressed by her attempts at justification, Gerry gives a disbelieving shake of his head. “There are some things he doesn’t want to know. If you saw him as a friend, you’d respect that.”

“I _tried_.” Ria’s arms are crossed defensively as she tries to keep standing tall, chin tilted up in defiance even as fear brims in her eyes.

A part of Gerry wants to prod at that fear, to unwind and examine it until he understands what Ria _wants_ with Oliver. He leans into the instinct for a moment. “How, exactly, did you ‘try’?”

Ria’s mouth opens and then shuts. She looks at a loss for words, trapped in the headlight beam of Gerry’s gaze. Then, she seems to steel herself once more, glaring daggers to hide her unease as she feigns a false offensive. “What have _you_ ever done to help him, to keep him away from things he might not want to know?” 

She’s not going to give in; of _course_ she isn’t. And he’d rather not engage her in a shouting match when he could be doing something to help Oliver instead.

“Just go,” he sighs on an outbreath, forcing himself to look away from her.

With a look equal parts incredulous and frustrated, Ria stands staring at him for a moment before spinning on her heel and storming off. Gerry watches her retreat in the periphery of his vision until she fades from view. Then, he turns over his own heel and crosses the floor of the Keystone once more to tap gently on the bathroom door. 

“She’s gone, Oliver,” he mutters against wood, wincing at the hoarseness in his voice. “It’s okay, she’s gone now.”

Hearing hesitant footsteps approach, he backs a few paces away and waits. The door opens at a painstaking crawl, but eventually, Gerry finds himself face to face with Oliver – still ashen, still haunted, but resolute in the way he stands tall. His eyes warily scan the shop, as if checking for death hiding in the corners, before he breathes a small sigh of relief and refocuses on Gerry.

Tentatively, Gerry opens his arms, an offering of shelter that can be taken or left. Oliver all but falls into them, his own arms curling around Gerry’s shoulders in a gesture equal parts protective and vulnerable – both soaking in and shielding his source of support.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nicole did an AMAZING [portrait of Ria](https://numinousnic.tumblr.com/post/622383485163913216/not-everybody-relies-on-such-simple-things-as) that I'm still LOSING MY MIND over!
> 
> find me @avatarofthebeholding on tumblr where I will NOT shut up about this au (& GerryOliver in general)


	14. Pierce the Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerry wills himself to keep watching. His eyelids won’t cooperate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Recommendation: "Sirens" by Fleurie
> 
> ( _"All of the clouds hang like gallows/Hey are you listening?/I cannot reach you/I'm on the other side, trying to break through"_ )

Gerry paints the eye that shines silver on the backs of his tarot cards.

This time, his canvas is the counter.

This time, he’s working in red.

The air of the shop stings metallic in his lungs - _where did this paint come from?_

He doesn’t know. He only knows he must mark every surface in the shop to keep out dark tendrils that snake across the front window. They blot out the view of London outside, save for a pair of bloodblack eyes staring at him with the patient malice of the inevitable.

The Casualty’s voice rings out like a funeral toll, finding its way into the shop each time Gerry blinks. It thrums through cobwebs in the corners like guitar strings, echoing back over and over.

He wills himself to keep watching. His eyelids won’t cooperate.

The eyes etched into his hands flicker sideways, turning his attention back towards the front window. When he meets the gaze of the person on the other side, it is no longer bloodblack but earthdark and afraid. 

Rooted to the spot by fear of what he’s becoming, the Coroner looks back at Gerry in the Casualty’s place. 

Gerry’s paintbrush falls, fragmenting as it hits the ground. The Keystone’s window shatters with it; the veins that pulse against the glass drop to envelop the ground before continuing their slow crawl forward. Gerry pays them no mind – there are more important things in life than the approach of death.

He reaches a hand through the empty air where the window once was, letting out a silent gasp of relief as cold fingers intertwine with his own. There is a tug across the threshold, and Oliver collapses into Gerry’s arms.

In a moment, the ground is embracing them both. Gerry barely has time to wonder at the lack of pain in the impact before the ceiling crashes down.

* * *

There is darkness, broken only by a beam of light shining in from the hallway. Gerry bolts upright in a cold sweat, vision clouded with the dizzy haze of hyperventilation. Reflexively, he reaches for the bottle water he knows sits on the nightstand beside him. The slight crackle of plastic under his fingers breaks the deafening silence in the room.

Draining the bottle with one long tilt does nothing to quench the burning urgency of questions behind his eyes, how they flicker in and out as he struggles to make sense of his dream.

At the edge of his vision, a shadow falls upon the doorway. There is a silhouette, a gasp, a whisper – “ _not again_ ” – and then the shadow flees.

The moment passes in confusion, blurred by the disorientation of disrupted concentration. Gerry’s thoughts rearrange themselves slowly as footsteps echo down the hallway, clicking into place as a door slams.

Realization hits with a crushing blow – the shadow, the gasp, the _voice_ belonged to Oliver. So did the slamming sound of a door frantically wrenched open, abruptly closed. Words ricochet through his mind - ‘not again,’ ‘not again,’ ‘ _not again_ ,’ -, hushed and haunted. Something happened to scare Oliver, something that had to do with _him_. 

The sudden knowledge sends a shiver through his bones, deepening the cold already settled there. Blazing fire in his veins rails against the chill, setting off flares of delayed adrenaline that push him to his feet. There is no relief in the action, only the feeling of his knees almost buckling as the room spins around him.

Gerry grips the bedpost to stay on his feet, then eases into a sitting position, eyes fluttering closed as he leans his pounding head against cool wood.

It is an indeterminate amount of time before his vision clears, but as soon as he can form thoughts through the blinding burn of pain, he rises once more – slowly, this time -, and steps out into the hallway of the flat, brushing his fingertips along the wall in case vertigo strikes once more.

At the bathroom door, he pauses, a sense of dread crawling over his skin. What about him had made Oliver’s voice quiet with terror? Does he even want to know?

Who is he kidding? He _needs_ to know.

Ducking from faint light into deep shadow, Gerry looks to the mirror above the sink for answers, hand poised to flip the lightswitch on.

Illumination, as it turns out, isn’t needed. Two silver eyes glow back at him, piercing a reflection that should be dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Surprise._
> 
> find me @avatarofthebeholding on tumblr where I will NOT shut up about this au (& GerryOliver in general)


	15. Hold Fast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Streetlights pulse, orange flashes through the dark. Feet pound on pavement. Memories burn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Recs: “The Glass Ghost” (Graham/Oliver) and “Comfort Me” (Gerry/Oliver) by Phildel
> 
> ( _"The things you say, the things you do,/They slip away and fade from you/Boy, you are nothing more than a ghost to me/Ghost to me/Presence I feel occasionally"_ )
> 
> ( _"Turning like a wheel that moves the soul/Burning like a star that guides you home/Will you comfort me?/'Cause my hands are open"_ )

Streetlights pulse, orange flashes through the dark. Feet pound on pavement. Memories burn. Oliver is past as much as present as he moves, as visions of time turned backwards flicker through his head.

_A pair of silver eyes glowing in the dark, boring into him, eyes that used to shine a soft, deep blue._

Graham’s eyes had captivated Oliver first, when they’d met – concerned, gentle like a clear sky in summer as he led the way to a class number etched on the paper schedule trembling in Oliver’s hands. As he guided Oliver through the rest of secondary school with an easy smile and a furrowed brow. As he brushed his thumbs gently over Oliver’s cheekbones to soothe frightened tears.

Even in the depths of his own struggles, Graham had been Oliver’s anchor – his life raft in the sea of grief that was watching a parent slowly waste away, his sanctuary when home felt crowded by the hovering presence of death at his mother’s bedside, his refuge from his father’s misplaced anger in the inevitable grief following her funeral.

For years, home hung heavy like a shroud in the back of Oliver’s mind. For years, it was only Graham who could pull him from the depths of his own psyche. Glances were reassuring, a wide-eyed gaze upon him proof that someone _saw_ him amidst the dark, despairing stupor that consumed so much of 2002.

2001 had haunted Graham just as thoroughly, after all. Car crash, two lives lost. A family fragmented in the wreckage, its only living member gifted with – bound to – a too-big flat just outside of London. No, Graham was no stranger to grief.

He opened his arms and home when Oliver mentioned wanting to finish his degree in the city, and so 2003 began in a whirlwhind of moving trucks and antique furniture shopping.

(Oliver never quite understood Graham’s fascination with furniture, but he admired it endlessly, listening fondly as his favorite voice spoke in tones of hushed excitement about the newest clock or chair he had found on his way home from class. Watching the way his eyes lit up, Oliver always found himself filled to the brim with a mixture of adoration and bashful envy, a silent wish that he could find that much joy and meaning in life outside of the whims of other people.)

The wind began to change in September of 2005, with Graham’s newest attempt to keep the drifting at bay – a criminology course. But it wasn’t the course that caused the shift. No, that was the table. The intricately patterned table Oliver found himself drawn to while looking for a birthday present for Graham, full of lines that wound themselves tightly around his heart until he resolved to take it home with a red ribbon tied to its top.

A table – _the_ table – that kicked off the downward spiral, that captivated Graham so thoroughly he couldn’t look away from it, that brought with it a pervading sense of something not-quite-right to the flat. Oliver learned a new sort of unease from the way the drain pipes outside the flat’s window started to shift at night, unfurling into tall and almost humanoid shapes in the corners of his eyes, normal once more when he turned to fully watch them.

Yes, the table changed the wind, turned the tide, and November saw Oliver plagued by the same eyes that had once comforted him. Blue, frozen over, no longer consoling but watchful. Glowing an unnatural silver in the dark.

The feeling of eyes boring into Oliver’s neck hadn’t been what frightened him. No, it had been the sight he’d been met with when rolling over in bed – the flashbeam glare of unnaturally coloured irises and black hole pupils that still enters his head unbidden at times.

Seeing the phenomenon in one person he had loved had been enough for one lifetime… he can’t bear to see misty grey turn to silver distrust, too.

A hand falls casually on Oliver’s shoulder, cold even through his heavy coat, and he leaps through time to land back in his present day body. He doesn’t know what he expects to hear, but it isn’t a pealing burst of resonant laughter.

“A little jumpy tonight, are we, Oli?” Ria’s voice rings with amusement in his ears, and it takes all the strength he has left not to break down into disbelieving laughter.

“Hello, Ria,” he sighs, letting exasperation seep into his words and demeanor. He shrugs off her hand more indelicately than he would if she was anyone else, letting out a heavy exhale as he wills away the creeping advance of the icy End that is so everpresent in her touch.

“Oh, we’re back to talking again, good!”

Ironic laughter threatens to bubble up again. Ria doesn’t seem to register Oliver’s discomfort – or, if she does, it doesn’t stop her from playfully nudging his arm in a gesture too friendly, too _casual_ for what she is.

For what _he_ is.

Silence stretches taut between them until she cuts through it again. “What managed to spook you so much, anyway?” With a step in front of him, she blocks his path, deceptively human-looking – save for the depth of emptiness in her hazel eyes as she studies him with a slight squint.

Uninjured, she is almost more unsettling a sight than she was after falling into a car crash – when she lifted her broken body up off the street with unnatural fortitude. Oliver barely stops himself from betraying his unease with a sharp inbreath, instead opting to stay firmly planted in place as he meets her gaze with as much calm wariness as possible.

“What do you _want_?”

“Can I not say hi to my friend?”

“How did you find me?”

“I didn’t. Just lucky, I guess.” Ria reaches out a hand towards his shoulder again, and this time, he can’t stop himself from flinching away. A flash of… _something_ passes over her features, drawing her eyebrows together and filling her eyes with temporary emotion before nonchalance smooths her brow once more. “Still struggling with the path you chose, I see. You only make this harder on yourself.”

And then, with a sharp turn over her shoulder, she’s stalking away as Oliver stays locked in place, pitch-black ponytail swishing behind her.

With one last pause she calls out over her shoulder, words carrying just far enough to reach his ears. “I’ll come back when you’re feeling more reasonable.”

Oliver shakes his head at her retreating form. He’s seen her version of “reasonable.” It isn’t a state of being he’ll ever give himself over to.

Allowing himself an unsettled intake of breath, haunted by nothing but memories that emerge from shadows around the fragile sanctuary of a blinking streetlamp, he leans against the wall behind him and lets his eyes scrunch close. He stays there, standing in some caricature of respite, until he hears the cautious approach of footsteps he knows well.

Oliver opens his eyes when the sound stops, trying for a smile as he takes in the messy, swept-back hair and uncharacteristically makeup-free face in front of him. Gerry’s eyes still glow faintly silver, but they search Oliver’s face with concern, not suspicion.

“Hi,” he mutters on an outbreath, breaking his worried gaze to glance at the ground with painful, uncharacteristic timidity.

“…Hello.” Oliver chances a step away from the wall to move closer to Gerry, reaching out hesitant arms. After a brief glance of disbelief and the shaky but definitive nod he’s given in return, Gerry falls into the embrace with a sigh of palpable relief. 

“M’sorry I scared you.”

“Well, you weren’t _quite_ the one who scared me.”

Gerry pulls back a bit to study Oliver’s face again, worrying at his lip piercing in thought. His hands flutter up to Olivers shoulders, settling firmly there to ground him in the physical world. His eyes spark with latent curiosity, with questions, then sober with what Oliver recognizes as a determination not to ask.

In reply, he gives as much of a smile as he can muster, and Gerry returns the expression with an aching genuineness. The hair Oliver combs his fingers through is artificial black, not brown streaked through with premature grey. The eyes staring back at him are silver-tinged mist, not sky blue with silverharsh overtones. Gerry’s face is more angular than Graham’s ever was, and he stands a couple inches shorter, tilting his head up at Oliver rather than looking down at him.

This is not the same person who has haunted him for eleven years, and he cannot allow ghosts of the past to strain the first new connection he’s been able to develop in ages. Oliver glances between Gerry’s eyes and mouth, only half cognizant of the action until Gerry echoes it back. His breath hitches in his throat as the hands on his shoulders still.

“ _Can_ I?” The question is soft-spoken but unmistakable.

Out of words, out of anything more than tired happiness only slightly tinged with familiar fear, Oliver nods. Gerry’s lips are pressed to his in a moment, warmth interrupted only by the cool metal of a studded piercing. Gerry’s hands clasp protectively around the back of Oliver’s neck, and as Oliver gently wraps his arms around his waist, he presses closer with a shuddering sigh of contentment.

Swaying under the streetlamp, they hold fast to each other, sheltered from the world until the sun starts to rise. There are questions that must be answered. For now, they remain unasked, and Oliver’s bone-deep exhaustion eases the slightest bit with the lack of immediate pressure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me @avatarofthebeholding on tumblr where I will NOT shut up about this au (& GerryOliver in general)


	16. In Defiance of Horror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every fiber of Gerry’s being screams of needing to know what happened, why Oliver ran – why he needs, must, doesn’t want to sleep. The need is swallowed, ignored, as it must be; Knowledge, Gerry knows, will not help here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Rec: "Wide-Eyed" by Cold Weather Company
> 
> ( _"Aimless, wandering wide-eyed, I was bound to love again/I will do you no harm, I won't fly/.../Running, I wasn't gone for long, I've grown all for you"_ )

The way back home is a blur of swaywalking and stumbling. One arm wrapped around Oliver’s waist in support, Gerry fights the vertigo that plagues him, trying to keep them on a steady path. Follow threads of belonging back home – _‘threads’ coming unbidden to his mind, reminiscent of spiders, and is that a warning of something at play or just a remnant of childhood conditioning_? He always wonders. So much of the intangible feels a part of him as much as it feels alien after so many years of exposure, like layers of sunburn on a soul. A soul, and its scars, and his thoughts are unspooling.

Distantly, he registers stopping. Comes back to himself to see Oliver’s shaking hands struggling with turning a key. Carefully, instinctively, he layers his own hands over Oliver’s to help. Together, they open the door.

Once inside, Gerry lowers himself onto the sofa, allowing a brief eyeroll at the usual crackle of his knees as he does so. Then, he lets his eyes close momentarily, letting out a sigh of relief as he feels his head clear. Looking up, he sees Oliver hovering on the edge of the cushion next to him, one hand braced on the arm of the sofa to keep himself upright as he meets Gerry’s eyes with a hesitant smile. And Gerry’s upset – of course he’s upset – but he can’t bring himself to be angry.

Oliver ran off in the middle of the night because something scared him. Gerry’s eyes glow silver sometimes. Neither of them is perfect, or ever will be.

So, Gerry reaches out his hand, an invitation, and Oliver takes it with a palpable sigh of relief. He sinks onto the sofa and then crumbles, head falling to rest in Gerry’s lap as he curls in on himself. Earthdark eyes flutter shut and snap open, the panic of almost falling asleep sending a shudder through Oliver’s entire body.

Every fiber of Gerry’s being screams of needing to know what happened, why Oliver ran – why he needs, must, doesn’t want to sleep. The need is swallowed, ignored, as it must be; Knowledge, Gerry knows, will not help here. Sharp pinpricks of pain jolt through the tattooed eyes on his body, but it doesn’t matter. He’s had worse.

He’s had worse, and Oliver hasn’t.

Oliver didn’t grow up with this. He certainly never _invited_ it.

The Watcher can glare all it wants. There are some parts of Gerry’s life it will never be privy to. Wry smile playing across his lips, he shakes his head through its pointless reprimand and focuses his attention on what he _does_ know…Oliver has run his hands through Gerry’s hair as a comfort before, and that can be mirrored back in kind now that Oliver’s the one who needs solace. So, after curling one arm lightly around Oliver’s waist, he slowly begins to comb through his braids with gentle fingers.

After minutes or hours – Gerry’s never been the best at parsing the passage of time – Oliver breaks the silence between them. “Well. I, uh, …ran off there, didn’t I? Sorry about that.” His voice is light, breezy, but Gerry hears the strained hum of nervous undertones all too well. “I – your eyes glow in the dark. Did you know that?”

“Yeah. ‘Spose I do now.” A little puff of laughter escapes Gerry’s throat – ironic and genuine in equal measures, something that prompts Oliver’s eyes to glance upwards with heightened concern. “Saw it in the mirror,” he continues, trying for a reassuring shrug.

“You’re…not the first person I’ve known. Whose eyes glow like that, I mean.” Oliver’s eyes shift off of Gerry’s to stare up to – no, _through_ – the ceiling.

 _Oh._ A reaction spurred by the past as much as it was by being startled. Gerry… understands that. Understands all too well, but it’s not his turn to speak. So he listens. He listens, and Oliver explains, words hesitant – stilted at times –, slowly forming a picture.

The picture begins to look familiar as its details solidify, and Gerry barely manages to stifle a gasp when the memory rushes back to him – _a statement, Stranger-related, back when Gertrude had him combing through files for anything to do with the Unknowing. The creature known as the NotThem, the table it was bound to, the Beholding-touched statement giver’s subject haunted by an uncanny presence just out of his reach, and – and how he died. How he was_ replaced _._

Looking past the clear mark of the End, how Oliver’s skeleton is beginning to show through his skin, Gerry Sees strands of spiderweb crisscrossed delicately over his wrists – knows in an instant that Oliver was Web-marked the moment he laid eyes on that table, manipulated into bringing it home so it could bring the place he called home to ruin. College student and ensnared marionette all at once, consumed with fear and panic as he watched someone he cared for become a stranger. _No wonder he would be afraid of witnessing the same phenomenon happen again._

His hand stills in Oliver’s hair, and Oliver’s speech halts abruptly. His eyes dart sideways to meet Gerry’s once more, paired with a strained attempt at a smile. “It’s… it’s alright. I was startled, I think, at the reminder.” He brings one hand up to cover Gerry’s, smile faltering as his recollections visibly press down on him – _memory_ , Gerry thinks _, must be a favorite tool of the Buried_ – and continues, “I’m – I think I’m alright now.”

“No. No, you’re not.”

Oliver doesn’t argue the point, just lets forced levity drain from his face as his eyes stay locked on Gerry’s. “I-“ He pauses, takes a deep, shuddering breath before he continues. “I can’t stay in London. Too many people die here, and I… can’t wander far enough in my dreams.”

“D’you want me to leave with you?”

“I…would like that, yeah.”

“Alright.” Gerry shifts to get up, stopping his trajectory only once to give Oliver a reassuring smile and a kiss on the forehead. “I’ll go get your computer, then we can start looking for places, okay?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me @avatarofthebeholding on tumblr where I will NOT shut up about this au (& GerryOliver in general)


	17. Life Still Left

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oliver” doesn’t sound heavy in Gerry’s mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Rec: “Beside You” by Phildel
> 
> ( _"When there's nothing but darkened sound/I will be beside you/When there's nothing but the long way 'round/I will be beside you/.../When your fears are a swarm in the hive of your mind/When the tears of your life and your loss are combined/I'll be everywhere you go"_ )

Oliver doesn’t check in on Gerry in the middle of the night anymore. Instead, he spends his time struggling to stay awake while Gerry sleeps curled into him (one arm slung loosely over his waist, palm of one hand resting over Oliver’s heart).

They don’t need two rooms anymore - this is better. More peaceful, even if Oliver doesn’t sleep much these days. Whenever Gerry wakes with a start, he’s statue-still until his name is whispered- “Gerry. Gerry, it’s me.”

With each repetition of the name, the phrase, he softens gradually until he curls into Oliver once more - warm, a safe presence, living light in a dark ocean of death. He exhales shakily at Oliver’s featherlight kisses to his forehead, his cheekbones, the corner of his mouth. And he falls back asleep, eventually.

When  Oliver wakes with a start or a scream, Gerry hardens with resolve rather than fear, shutting his eyes so silver doesn’t shine through - simultaneously moving to press his forehead against Oliver’s, jaw set with the stubbornness of someone determined to save people.

It’s a routine. It’s solace. So, when they’re browsing for a countryside home, they specify “one-bedroom” in their searches.

Anahita refers Oliver and Gerry to a real estate agent to help sell their flat- her aunt. The connection is a relief, one less thing for two lost souls to look for.

She meets them with a stoic, businesslike exterior, navy blue pantsuit and gelled-back hair. She gives a neutral impression, at first. Then, when she gets wind of the planned shift from two-bedroom to one, she mutters “congratulations” with a little wink.

Gerry’s cheeks flush a glowing pink, beautiful even beneath harsh fluorescent lights, and Oliver decides then and there that he likes Helen Richardson. That he’d like her even if she  wasn’t part of Anahita’s family.

Helen has a firm grip when she shakes Oliver’s hand, clasping it in both of her own with an introduction and steady eye contact. She takes in details of the house, neat and no-nonsense - yet somehow never  cold \- in her expressions and words. Gerry, Oliver notices, watches this with a fond smile of recognition.

“Something on your mind?” Oliver asks, giving his hand a squeeze.

“Reminds me of Anahita, is all.” Gerry squeezes back, smile widening for a moment before it falters. “Family, blood, it...pushes you in certain directions. I think I like seeing it, when inheritance is a good thing.”

“Ah.” Oliver disentangles his hand from Gerry’s, moving to lay a steadying arm across his shoulders instead.

When Helen turns around from her evaluation and study of the living room, she reacts to her clients’ new standing positions with a knowing look.

* * *

Oliver sees what will burn in his dreams - a driver in a car that will catch fire, dark vines of futuredeath twining out from their body in the shapes of flames. Lightless, lifeless.

He wakes up to the smell of smoke. His heart pounds as scrambles to his feet, rushing into the kitchen to see... Gerry frowning at two burnt pieces of toast.

One hand slams down onto the kitchen table as Oliver bursts into laughter - one part hysterical, one part amused, one part pure relief.

He is coming back to normal breathing, worry beginning to seep into his mind once again, when suddenly there’s a grape-jam-covered piece of burnt toast being held out towards him.

He looks up to see Gerry’s gaze locked on him, equal parts concerned and mischievous.

“Gerry, I’m  not eating this.” Oliver tries for an eyebrow raise, making a halfhearted attempt not to give in to the smile that twitches at the corners of his mouth.

“It’s just toast, Oliver.”

(“Oliver” doesn’t sound heavy in Gerry’s mouth. It never sounds  awkward when he says it, just...light. A summer breeze, rather than the burden it feels like when uttered by professors or professionals. Subtle, soft, not the mocking shock-value word it was on Ria’s lips.)

Then the piece of toast is right under Oliver’s nose, snapping him out of his thoughts. Gerry gives him an innocent smile.

“ _Gerry_.”

“Yeah?”

“This looks like burnt  firewood.”

“It’s called ‘toast’ for a reason.”

“‘Toast,’ not ‘ashes topped with jam.’”

“Eh, same difference.”

“I give up.” Oliver gives a (perhaps a bit exaggerated) sigh before going to get the bread from on top of the fridge and make his own toast. He dials the toaster down to its lowest setting, letting his mind wander a bit as he stands and waits for it to be done. 

“Signed us up for a house tour,” a voice announces into his ear.

Oliver can’t stop himself from jumping a little. (Why does Gerry have to be so good at sneaking up on people? ...Actually, maybe he doesn’t want to know that.) 

Before he can start speculating, he turns to face Gerry with badly-feigned outrage.

“You scared the life out of me!”

“Good.”

“E-ex cuse me?”

Gerry’s eyes turn serious, then, sparks of troubled thoughts showing through projected serenity. He reaches one hand up to to cup Oliver’s face, traces a thumb along his cheekbone, then goes still, save for a little tug at his lip ring and a momentary glance at the floor before his eyes raise to lock with Oliver’s once more. “Means there’s still life left in you.”

Oliver...doesn’t know what to say - how  could he know what to say to that - so he just turns his head to press his lips to Gerry’s palm. His heart leaps and sinks in equal measures when Gerry‘s eyes flutter closed, and then open filled with emotion. Hope, shock, something like awe. 

He steps forward to tangle his hands in Oliver’s shirt, head tilting to rest on his shoulder, letting out a contented sigh as Oliver’s arms wrap around his waist.

For a few minutes, they stay there. This is the closest to peaceful their lives have been lately, and every second is treasured.

Eventually, Gerry breaks the silence by muttering a name: “Thomas McHugh.” 

“Who?”

“The house person.”

“You mean...the  _realtor_?”

Gerry groans, then lifts his chin to look up at Oliver with an eye roll - ‘how would  I know?’ - undermined by the glimmer of barely-suppressed laughter that flashes over his face.

And then they are both laughing uncontrollably, standing wrapped in a giggling embrace. Oliver’s toast is probably cold by now. He really doesn’t care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me @avatarofthebeholding on tumblr where I will NOT shut up about this au (& GerryOliver in general)


	18. A Semblance of Solace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver tries to stay in the fields in his dreams, to wander off into endless expanses of countryside where there is no one to be found. No one to die.
> 
> Song Rec: “Never Quite Free” by The Mountain Goats
> 
> ( _"It's all good to learn that right outside your window/There's only friendly fields and open roads/And you'll sleep better when you think/You've stepped back from the brink/.../Walk by faith/Tell no one what you've seen/.../It's all good to learn that from right here the view goes on forever/And you'll never want for comfort and you'll never be alone"_ )

As John McHugh’s pleasant voice drones away in the background, Gerry surveys the rooms of the house that will soon be home. The light grey chair and couch left behind by previous occupants, the gleam of fresh varnish on wooden floors, the warmth of overhead lights and the presence of shutters that can be drawn shut to keep the outside world at bay.

This’ll work. He gives Oliver’s hand a squeeze, and Oliver squeezes back. When Gerry turns to him, he’s looking around with a faint smile on his face and a flickering of light in his eyes - a hope, a vitality, that hasn’t been present in a long time. His brow is smoothed with an almost uncharacteristic absence of worry, shoulders sagging with relief.

Gerry leans in, lifting onto the balls of his feet. “This it?” he asks softly, lips brushing the rim of Oliver’s ear. He can’t help but crack a triumphant smile at the shiver he gets in response, hiding his face against Oliver’s collarbone as the grin grows wider.

After a little, long-suffering sigh, Oliver responds, voice full of barely-held-back amusement. “I think so.”

* * *

On the day before the official move, Gerry brings the last set of tarot cards he’ll hand-deliver to the Keystone with Oliver in tow. The door opens with the familiar sound of chimes - Gerry’s missed that sound, more than he’d like to admit -, and Anahita is standing with her back to them as she rearranges a bookshelf. Poised and professional, ready to reason with unfamiliar customers, she gets to her feet and turns over her shoulder with a wavecrash of dark hair. When she sees who her guests actually are, one hand flutters up to her mouth, eyes widening in surprise. She recovers quickly, rushing over to give Gerry and Oliver each a hug, accepting the batch of tarot cards with a smile that wavers between emotions.

There are promises to keep in touch, and Anahita takes her lucky skull earrings off to drop them in Oliver’s palm, gently curling his fingers around them before throwing her arms around Oliver’s waist. One last hug.

Then, she slings her deep blue scarf around Gerry’s neck, and he has to hold back a gasp of surprise at the gesture. “I-“ He doesn’t know where he’s going, so he cuts himself off, hand running along the length of the scarf’s knitting.

“I’m glad I met you, Gerry.” Anahita’s eyes brim with painful fondness, and she pulls him into a tight embrace before releasing him. “Take care of Oliver, okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I will... Thank you, Anahita. For everything.”

* * *

Oliver tries to stay in the fields in his dreams, to wander off into endless expanses of countryside where there is no one to be found. No one to die. He never gets far before there is a vein tugging him back towards civilization, curled cold around his wrist or ankle.

Waking up screaming is a less common occurrence now, but he still wakes early quite often. Entire nights are spent staring at the ceiling, sometimes, clamping his eyes shut with a shudder when he sees vines of bloodblack along the corners of the walls - just passing through, on their way to someone else’s doom, but unsettling nonetheless.  Inviting nonetheless.

It is Gerry, even in sleep, who reminds Oliver to stay human. His breath is warm as it fans acrossOliver’s neck, his presence solid, his curtain of hair partially strewn across Oliver’s chest.

Of course, Gerry still has nightmare sometimes, as Oliver supposed he might. Trauma doesn’t weaken its hold in the face of physical distance.

One night, in the aftermath of waking up with a gasp of terror, Gerry fists both hands in Oliver’s shirt and mutters, “You’re still not sleeping,” drowsily against his collarbone.

There’s nothing Oliver can say to that, not really. He can’t offer reassurances that everything’s okay, because everything may be  better but it’s still far from “okay.” So he just exhales shakily, wrapping an arm around Gerry’s waist to pull him in closer.

“M’not letting this go,” Gerry grumbles. Nonetheless, he leans into Oliver’s touch without hesitation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me @avatarofthebeholding on tumblr where I will NOT shut up about this au (& GerryOliver in general)


	19. The Spaces In Between

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerry and Oliver live as peacefully as they can. Ria makes a discovery, and a new acquaintance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Recommendation: “Paradise” by Anderson Rocio
> 
> ( _"We're stronger than we think we are/'Cause nothing that we're made of is built from glass/.../It's not paradise/But if you look close enough you'll see/The sunrise in our eyes/Let the ocean set you free"_ )

The sun rises, and the sun sets. Dreams come and go day-by-day, night-by-night. Oliver watches fondly as Gerry sits perched on the porch swing outside with a furrowed brow, modelling the landscapes of his tarot cards after the expanse of countryside stretching out in all directions. For each completed deck of cards sent back to the Keystone, a thank-you note from Anahita arrives – a collection of gushing comments about the quality of Gerry’s work, sealed in a deep blue envelope.

Gerry, Oliver notices, seems to treat each piece of mail from her like it’s delicate – opens the envelopes carefully, holds to the paper within like it might disintegrate in his hands.

Waiting, always waiting, for the catch. For the thread to unravel, the stitches to come apart.

* * *

Ria slams the door to the Keystone open, stepping in amidst a whirlwind of startled gasps and chimes jangling overhead. Turning to face the cash register, she starts to ask, “Miss me, Oli?” But the question dies on her lips as she finds herself facing a woman with a smooth brow, crossed arms, and cascading waves of dark hair. “…Anahita.”

“Ria. Need help finding anything?” The corners of Anahita’s mouth turn up in a subtle smile.

“Are Oliver and Gerard here?”

“Actually, they left a few months ago.”

“ _Left_?”

“Moved away. The chaos of the city was getting to Oliver.”

“Where did they go?”

Anahita’s eyes flash with warning. “Leave them be. You were part of the chaos.”

* * *

After a particularly long night of laying awake, closing his eyes and trying to focus on the reassuring steadiness of Gerry’s breathing, Oliver decides to get up and watch the sunrise. He likes seeing light spill over the horizon, illuminating the land around the country house – its emptiness of other human or animal life.

He moves slowly, gingerly, so as not to wake his sleeping partner. Disentangling himself with care, supplying a pillow in his place when Gerry’s arms continue to reach towards him. Carefully readjusting the blankets on the bed so they come up to curl around Gerry’s shoulders. Making the space as comfortable as it can be before he heads downstairs.

Oliver nearly trips on something while walking out the front door. When he looks down, by the light of the first rosy rays of dawn, he sees a rolled-up newspaper. Strange, he doesn’t remember subscribing to any newspapers. Gerry’s, then.

He picks up the paper with a fond smile, flipping absently through it as the sky turns from navy to clear blue. A photograph on one page catches his attention – it depicts a small island in the middle of a calm ocean, remote and faraway. Peaceful in its distance. The caption on the photograph identifies it as “Point Nemo,” and Oliver carefully folds down the top corner of the image, making a note to himself to go back and read the article associated with the place sometime later. He doesn’t think Gerry, arsonist extraordinaire, will mind one dog-eared page.

* * *

Rosie is sitting at her desk, typing unassumingly away, when Ria arrives at the Magnus Institute. The lobby is empty. Usually, Ria would feel a twinge of disappointment at not being able to make a scene, but today… today is different.

“When were you planning on telling me they’d left?” she demands, slamming her hands down on the receptionist’s desk. She knows her icy rage is barely contained, can _hear_ the hiss of icicle-point sharpness in her own tone. She knows it will be used against her, to manipulate her, and cannot bring herself to care. There is no warming the arctic in her veins.

Outwardly placid as ever, Rosie brushes a few strands of silken hair behind her ear before replying, “You’ll have to be more specific than that.”

“Oliver. Gerard. They’re _gone_.”

“And?”

“Rosie. Last time I spoke to you, you said everything was going ‘according to plan.’”

“Yes. A plan you don’t know the specifics of.”

“I had to find out they’d moved away from London from the Keystone’s _owner_ ,” Ria continues, ignoring the interruption. “You _let_ me be embarrassed by keeping things from me, Rosie.”

“You embarrassed _yourself_ – I had no part in that. Really, haven’t I warned you before to be less dramatic?” For the first time since the start of the conversation, Rosie turns to meet her eyes. “The Mother works how she wants to – you’ll move when your strings are pulled again.”

“When my _strings_ are pulled again?” A laugh of disbelief bubbles up from Ria’s throat, low and harsh.

“You’ve always known you’re just a puppet.”

“I belong to the End. I’m just doing you a favor.”

“Sure.” The word is a mockery of placation.

Ria spins on her heel and storms out the door.

* * *

When Oliver walks back inside, Gerry is standing by the toaster in the kitchen and tugging at his lip ring. He’s gazing at the bread within, almost glaring, but with a slightly pleading undertone – as if he’s trying to telekinetically ask it to _please_ not get burnt this time. Barely stifling an amused chuckle, Oliver lays the newspaper from the porch down on the kitchen table and quietly watches as the toast is prepared. “You’ve gotten better at that,” he says eventually. “I _might_ be able to trust you not to burn down the kitchen now.”

Gerry startles a bit but recovers quickly, turning around to retort, “’Morning to you too.”

Now, Oliver does laugh a little, and crosses the room to wrap his arms lightly around Gerry’s shoulders.

“Oh no _help_ , I can’t move,” Gerry deadpans, curling his own arms around Oliver’s middle. And Oliver laughs some more, leaning their foreheads together, looking deep into silver-tinged gray eyes that don’t scare him anymore.

* * *

After walking through the streets of London for a few hours, falling, ignoring traffic signals, and dying until she feels replenished, Ria comes to terms with the fact that Rosie was probably right. The Web will lead her to Oliver if she’s meant to find him again. And in the meantime, she can return to the rhythm of her normal undeath.

She hadn’t lied to Oliver when they last met under a streetlamp – she hadn’t been looking for him. She probably won’t be looking for him the next time they meet either.

Continuing to move forwards, to sway with the rhythm of the fear of death that ebbs and flows around her, she finds herself drawn to a couple arguing near a parked motorcycle. After getting close enough to hear them, she leans against the nearest wall she can find, pulling out a cigarette and her skull lighter so she can observe without being noticed.

“You had _no_ reason to go that fast to get here. Do you know how many times we almost got hit?” one of them snaps through gritted teeth, nervously raking a hand through their windblown hair.

“Stopped counting at three – look, I work with substances that could kill me every day. I think I know what I’m doing,” the second responds.

“Knowing what you’re doing in a lab does _not_ equate to knowing what you’re doing on the streets, Thomas.” The first person sputters, choking out an ironic laugh.

“It’s _fine_.”

“It’s _not_. Don’t contact me again.” The first person Ria heard speak lets out a shaky breath and walks away, leaving Thomas alone in the bustling crowd. He seems calm, but there is a deep fear thrumming under his nonchalance, evident in the way his fingers drum ceaselessly along the leather seat of the motorcycle behind him. And it’s a fear regarding mortality, because Ria can _feel_ it fueling her.

Interesting. This, she decides, is someone she’ll want to keep an eye on.

So she approaches him, holding out the box of cigarettes from her coat pocket in offering when he looks up at her. “Want one? You look like you might need it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me @avatarofthebeholding on tumblr where I will NOT shut up about this au (& GerryOliver in general)


	20. Deathgrip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver stands in the middle of a freeway, surrounded by pulsing black vines that snake around car crash victims frozen in their positions of death. Surprise keeps him still – he hasn’t woken up somewhere different than the place he fell asleep in years, not since Canary Wharf, so why now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Recommendations: "Tornadoland” by Regina Spektor (GerryOliver) and “Rattlesnake” by Kabaret Sybarit (Ria & Dr. Pritchard)
> 
> ( _"Before the light goes out/Why don't you close your eyes?/And all the monsters in your mind just wanna be nice/They wanna be kind, they wanna play nice"_ )
> 
> ( _“Living is overwhelming/Dying might just be your thing/.../Rubberman’s head head is spinning/When Rattlesnake pulls her string/.../He won’t ever ask me why, no/So let the games begin”_ )

When Gerry finds the dog-eared page in Oliver’s newspaper, sees the photo of a deserted island in the midst of an expanse of ocean, he feels the phantom pull of the Vast’s vertigo. Or maybe he’s just been standing too long – hard to tell, sometimes. Paper still in hand, he all but collapses into one of the chairs at the kitchen table and waits for his world to stop spinning.

Oliver must hear the unceremonious _thunk_ Gerry makes as he sits down, because suddenly, light but hurried footsteps are sounding down the stairs.

When Oliver appears in view, eyes brimming with concern, Gerry gives what he hopes is a reassuring smile before brandishing the newspaper with a flourish. “Point Nemo, huh? Looks like an interesting place.”

The worry in Oliver’s eyes doesn’t quite fade. “You didn’t dislocate anything again, did you?”

And Gerry… doesn’t know what to do but shake his head and start silently laughing to himself. No, he didn’t dislocate anything. No, he can’t comprehend why Oliver would even think to worry about that in the first place, fatigued as Oliver himself is. No, he doesn’t understand _any_ of this.

After a startled blink, Oliver – who looks about as surprised as Gerry feels – crosses the room and sits in the chair next to him. Reaches his hands out for whenever Gerry is ready to take them.

* * *

“The island isn’t Point Nemo, you know. In the picture.” Oliver’s eyes flicker with something akin to hope as he stares at the ceiling in thought – he and Gerry have moved to the couch for more comfort, Oliver reclining back so his head rests in Gerry’s lap –, and Gerry’s heart soars.

“Hmm.” He doesn’t know quite what to say, so he leaves it at that. Lets simplicity be enough, for once, as he gently runs his fingers through Oliver’s braids.

“It’s actually a point far from land – the furthest from land you can be on the planet. Sometimes, the closest people to that site are astronauts orbiting the earth.” Oliver’s voice is lilting, soft, and tinged with childlike awe.

To Gerry, this sounds like a good place to become a fear meal for the Lonely. To Oliver, it represents the possibility of escape from a life of fever dreams. Funny, how context can change perception like that.

“There’d be so much less death there.” Oliver shifts his gaze from the ceiling to meet Gerry’s eyes, expression earnest and achingly hopeful.

“There’d also be less life there.” The statement is quiet, said as gently as Gerry can manage, but Oliver’s face still crumples – tentative, wistful happiness sinking back into deep, mournful defeat.

“I just want to go someplace where there’s less death,” he sighs. Gerry’s heart bends and breaks for him.

“We’ll go, if we ever can.” It is a declaration – a promise.

Relief floods Oliver’s features as he lets out a deep, shuddering sigh, moving to curl his arms around Gerry’s shoulders. And his hands are so, so cold, but his eyes are still human – inches away from Gerry’s as their breaths intermingle, fluttering closed with implicit trust as their lips meet. Gerry sighs against Oliver's mouth, brushes a thumb across his cheekbone. Oliver traces the tattoos on his shoulders and elbows, gentle as always. This is too peaceful to last, a moment with the afternoon sunlight spilling onto the couch and nobody outside, and Gerry knows it. He holds on for dear life - both his and Oliver's.

* * *

Dr. Thomas Pritchard, first and foremost, is a scientist. He likes to study things, things and people. Experimenting, cataloging results, crafting hypotheses and conclusions based on social interactions.

After years of looking at patterns, identifying the key motivations and traits of different people who have woven in and out of his life, he can usually piece together who someone is after spending an hour with them.

Ria Mirti is an exception to that rule. Her voice is sweet, hair neatly pulled back. Strong handshake. She is a smile, and an offered cigarette, the faint flicker of fire from a lighter with a skull painted on it. She has cold hands and cold eyes, but a placid expression. Smooth brow, save for when it momentarily creases with amusement, and yet…

And yet she listens to him so intently that she almost falls down a flight of stairs more than once.

And yet, she wears a necklace with such sentimental value to her that she never takes it off.

And yet, she trusts him enough to fall asleep against his shoulder on the tube, fingers intertwined with his in a deathgrip that doesn’t loosen when she nods off. (She wakes up smiling brightly, saying something about visiting an old friend in a dream.)

All he knows, thus far, is an inexplicable and persistent urge to keep her happy – so he does. Something pokes at him beyond that happiness, an unease he feels sometimes when he looks at her and she is sitting _too_ still. He brushes it aside.

High-speed motorcycle rides late at night have always given him welcome rushes of adrenaline. So when Ria, arms wrapped around his waist from behind, leans forward to whisper “ _faster_ ” in his ear, he listens.

* * *

Oliver stands in the middle of a freeway, surrounded by pulsing black vines that snake around car crash victims frozen in their positions of death. Surprise keeps him still – he hasn’t woken up somewhere different than the place he fell asleep in years, not since Canary Wharf, so why now? Before he can even start to think on that, his surprise is overlayed by a deeper shock and horror as one of the strangers on the ground begins to move, dragging themselves up from where they lay next to a motorcycle. There is the crackle of bones knitting back together, the receding of vines into the figure, and then Ria Mirti is standing in front of him with a smirk. She is not washed-out like the other people in his dreams – no, she looks exactly like she did when he last saw her.

“Miss me, Oli?”

Oliver blurts out the first question that comes into his head: “Why did I never see you before, in my dreams of London?”

“I don’t sleep.” She shrugs.

“You’re sleeping right now.”

“Yes.” Ria grins, too-wide – like the exposed smile of a skeleton. “This is different.”

“Same Ria, I see. You won’t answer my questions, will you?”

“Depends. But I can offer you some advice.”

Oliver turns to walk away, back towards home, back towards Gerry. He barely has time to entertain the small fear that Ria may follow him before something wraps around his ankle, holding him in place. He doesn’t look down. He doesn’t turn around. Cold seeps into his bones. “What do you want, Ria?”

“Why did you move out here?” There’s genuine curiosity in the question, something Oliver has never heard from her before.

“To get away from death, as much as I could. To get away from you.” He doesn’t worry about hurting her feelings – really, he feels too tired to be anything but blunt and straightforward with anyone but Gerry.

“Ah. So to get away from death, you decided to get away from life?”

“There’s really no other way, is there?”

Ria doesn’t answer the question, moving ahead with whatever she’s planned to say instead. “What if I told you the driver of this motorcycle planned to embark on a scientific voyage to the most isolated place on Earth?”

Oliver whirls around before he can stop himself, almost tripping over the vines that hold him in place and prompting a peal of laughter from Ria. “Thought that might catch your attention.” She motions to a man with a neck choked by black tendrils – someone laying by the same motorcycle she had been moments ago. “Dr. Thomas Pritchard: chemist, motorcyclist, and esteemed member of the crew for an upcoming trip to the oceanic point of inaccessibility – Point Nemo, I believe it’s called. He’ll die before he gets the chance to go, of course.”

“An empty space in the crew.” The realization is muttered in a rushed sigh, with unconcealed relief, and Oliver cringes momentarily at how desperate he must sound but can’t bring himself to keep caring. He’s too tired.

“ _Exactly_.”

Cautiously, Oliver wades through the sea of death surrounding him to move back towards Ria – an offer of truce. “What else do you know? About the voyage?”

Ria gives a little clap of excitement and grins too-wide again. “I thought you’d never ask.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me @avatarofthebeholding on tumblr where I will NOT shut up about this au (& GerryOliver in general)


	21. Olive Branch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What do you mean you won’t go without Gerard? This is exactly the opportunity you’ve been waiting for, and you’re willing to throw it away for him?” Ria’s somehow managed to both raise her eyebrows and squint at Oliver at the same time. It’s almost impressive.
> 
> He has to force down a laugh at her clear shock, how out of touch she is with the reality of being human. “I made him a promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song recommendation: "the end" by XYLO
> 
> ( _"Lately I've been sacrificing/Things I never knew I had/And I've not been to paradise/But I'm trying harder than I ever have/So I just ask myself/Will this all be worth it in the end?/Yeah, I just tell myself/This'll all be worth it in the end"_ )

“What do you _mean_ you won’t go without Gerard? This is exactly the opportunity you’ve been waiting for, if I heard you right, and you’re willing to throw it away for him?” Ria’s somehow managed to both raise her eyebrows and squint at Oliver at the same time. It’s almost impressive.

He has to force down a laugh at her clear shock, how out of touch she is with the reality of being human. Of having someone else to look out for. “I made him a promise.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“No; I’m dead serious.” Oliver lets a wry smile play across his lips, arms crossed protectively over his chest.

Silence stretches taut between them, so much that he can hear the sound of blood rushing through the black vines at his feet.

“There are other members on the crew who – currently – will live to see the voyage.” Ria mutters through gritted teeth. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Chin tilted up defiantly, shoulders squared, she looks ready to fight if he refuses the offer.

Oliver doesn’t have the energy to argue with her.

“Alright.” He’s surprised at how steady his voice sounds, how _certain._

Ria’s eyes widen slightly, and there’s another moment of tense quiet as she readjusts herself to the conversation. “You’re closer to becoming than I thought,” she says eventually. “I underestimated you.”

Oliver laughs, not bothering to hide the bitterness interlaced with his hollow amusement. “I’m just tired.”

“Aren’t we all?”

“You haven’t looked tired a single time I’ve seen you, Ria.”

“Point.” Ria lets out a little snort of air (the closest to a laugh she ever seems to get when she’s not the one who’s caused the situation she laughs at). “Counterpoint: you don’t know me.”

Her eyes spark with challenge again, playful this time.

Sometimes, Oliver thinks she might truly want to be friends. He also doesn’t think she knows _how_ to be a friend anymore. Maybe in another life, another death, but not this one.

He decides not to back down from this challenge, though. “You never _let_ me know you.”

“It wasn’t my purpose.” With an upward quirk of her mouth and an eye roll, Ria turns to leave. “Bye, Oli. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Alright,” Oliver sighs under his breath – more to himself than her. “Alright.”

He unwinds his arms, shoulders collapsing under the weight of his decision, and stands in the road for a while. Processing the encounter, shaky smile flickering every so often across his features. His life has come to a point where he accepts the promise of another’s death as an olive branch – the irony is fitting, and far less disconcerting to him than it should be.

* * *

When Oliver wakes, the first thing he sees is a pair of soft gray eyes looking into his own. Gerry smiles, wide and achingly genuine, hair fanned out across the pillow his head lays upon.

“Hey.” His voice is sleepy but bright, like the sun barely risen above the horizon.

“Hello.” Oliver doesn’t know how to pinpoint how his own voice sounds, but it seems to make Gerry happy, at least. His grin grows even wider, and he leans in for a kiss – runs the fingers of one hand across Oliver’s jaw until Oliver involuntarily gasps against his mouth. Gerry ducks his head, then, tucking himself under Oliver’s chin as his shoulders shake with silent laughter.

Oliver can feel Gerry’s smile against his neck. “Gerry,” he mumbles into a cloud of black hair, trying to sound gently stern and coming across as painfully fond – which he absolutely _is_ – instead.

Gerry untucks himself slightly, looking up through his eyelashes. “What?” The sunlight is hitting one side of his face, making him squint and scrunch his nose a bit, highlighting the smudges of unremoved kohl liner around his brilliantly alert eyes, and it’s simultaneously the most ridiculous and the most beautiful thing Oliver has ever seen.

When Gerry’s brow furrows in confusion, accompanied by a mutter of, “Why’re you looking at me like that?,” Oliver has no coherent answer to give to the question, opting instead to pull Gerry in for another kiss. Gerry melts into the contact more than Oliver thought was humanly possible – arms circled tightly around Oliver’s waist, legs tangled with Oliver’s legs, heartbeat drumming against heartbeat.

 _Death as an olive branch._ The thought creeps unbidden into Oliver’s mind, and he pushes it away. He will not allow guilt to deny him this happiness, this closeness, an intertwining he never thought he’d be part of again after he and Graham unraveled. After _he_ unraveled.

Then, he feels teeth nip at his throat and gives a startled yelp. “ _Gerry!_ ”

“You were drifting,” Gerry mumbles, sounding entirely unapologetic. “Seems like you slept better, though. Don’t seem as tired.”

“Yes, I…I did. Point Nemo.”

Gerry’s head snaps up and backwards, palms finding both sides of Oliver’s face as he stares intently, incredulously into his eyes. A hopeful smile plays across his lips. “You got to it?”

“Well, not quite,” Oliver replies, tone of voice landing somewhere between laughter and a wistful sigh. “I got closer, though.” He leans his forehead against Gerry’s and closes his eyes, takes a deep breath in and tries to mask the stutter of his forced exhale. “I got closer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me @avatarofthebeholding on tumblr where I will NOT shut up about this au (& GerryOliver in general)


	22. Brave the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A single flame cannot stand against the expanse of the ocean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Recommendation: "The Night Starts Here" by Stars
> 
> ( _"The pleasure part, the afterthought/The missing stone in the graveyard/.../No one is spared, no one is clean/It travels places you've never been or seen before/.../The time we have, the task at hand/The love it takes to destroy a man/The ecstasy, the being free/That big black cloud over you and me"_ )

Gerry doesn’t know what to do with the solar flares pounding in his mind – not pain this time, but _shock_. Oliver’s hand hovers above his arm, earthdark eyes flickering with alarm, exhausted and nervous and _entirely lost to reason_.

“ _Oliver_.” Gerry himself is lost as well, mind racing too fast and burning too brightly to be of any use as he tries to find a way to explain just how _terrible_ an idea this is. A voyage where two scientists scheduled to be aboard just _happened_ to be due to bite it before they can embark. _Point Fucking Nemo._

Unbidden, images come to mind – a captain with bones that show through their skin, or one who weaves an entire crew to their will. So much could go wrong, so little could go right, and even in the minute chance that the supernatural might be absent on the ship… it’s a hastily thrown-together plan, reflecting in its every whim and wish the sleep-deprivation of the person who compiled it.

“Gerry, I –“ Oliver’s gaze is melancholy, pleading. His hand shakes nearly imperceptibly where it still hovers above Gerrys’ arm. _Little earthquakes._ Gerry swallows the lump in his throat, chokes down the desire for a peace that would come at the expense of his own power. It has plagued him since childhood, and now it resurges, sticking to the walls of his windpipe as he struggles to breathe.

“Oliver, do you see the webs spun around this? The way the End draws you to it?”

Oliver’s brow furrows, and his eyes turns knowing for a moment. The corners of his mouth twitch ever-so-slightly up in an ironic smile. _Yes. Yes, he sees it; he understands._ It doesn’t matter. He’s held onto Point Nemo for a long time, and now that it might be pulling him to the grave, he can’t bring himself to let go.

Gerry knows and Knows this all in a moment, realizes that there’s no way to stay by Oliver’s side without acquiescing. A single flame cannot stand against the expanse of the ocean; no human shelter can outweigh the siren song of peace on the open water.

All at once, it is clear. The solar flares stop. He is no longer blindsided – he understands. For Oliver, this is the only way, and Gerry has a promise to keep. He brushes past the hand that still hovers over his arm, takes Oliver’s face in both of his hands, and then nods. Deliberately, slowly, only once.

Oliver deflates with relief, eyes scrunching shut as he leans to rest his forehead against Gerry’s. “Thank you,” he breathes, the sound is light in tone but heavy with the weight of all he’s witnessed. Gerry responds by pulling Oliver into a tight embrace, exhaling against the fabric of his sweater as the gesture is returned.

“When do we leave?”

“In a couple weeks."

* * *

“Gerard had _better_ be on board with this,” Ria groans, laying strewn dramatically across the death-veins on the highway in Oliver’s dreamscape.

“He is.” Oliver assures, rolling his eyes at her position. He doubts she can comprehend the meaning of true exhaustion anymore.

“Do you _know_ how much extra work it took me?” She flips onto her stomach to stare up at him more directly. Oliver tries to ignore the squelching noise of the pulsing tendrils beneath her. “It wasn’t as simple as planning to step in front of someone’s car or convince them to disregard the speed limit, you know. Noooo, I had to pretend to know what I was talking about long enough to appeal to Dr. Williams’ fascination with lightning and convince him to stand outside in a storm that doesn’t even _happen_ for another _four days_.”

Oliver can’t help himself – he bursts out laughing. Ria groans.

“Do you know how frustrating it is to have to pretend to be interested in the _weather_? Not to mention I _still_ have to make sure he actually dies. This is _not_ my forte, Oli.”

“So you’d _rather_ just step out into traffic?”

“ _Yes_!”

* * *

The night Dr. Williams dies, out in the middle of a field, Oliver has parked his and Gerry’s rental van on the side of the road. He sees one figure drop and begins to start forward, but a tug on his arm stops him. He looks back to see Gerry’s eyes narrowed, shining silver with piercing suspicion as he stares at the second figure in the field.

 _Oh_. Oh, right. He hadn’t thought about explaining _her._

“You didn’t tell me there’d be someone else with him – is this new?” Gerry hisses. “ _Dammit_ , Oliver, I _knew_ this was a bad idea.”

“It’s – she’s, uh, not quite a person?” Oliver winces at the way his own voice wavers into uncertainty. Gerry’s eyes shift from narrowed to wide with disbelief as his gaze turns to Oliver

Before Oliver has gathered himself enough to explain the situation any more coherently, Ria is close enough for recognition.

“Oli. Gerard. Nice to see you again,” she intones, opening her arms in greeting as a wide smile spreads across her features.

“What’re you doing here?” Gerry speaks through gritted teeth, angled so he stands between her and Oliver.

“She’s…helping,” Oliver mumbles in response, not trusting Ria to answer in a diplomatic way.

There is confusion in Gerry’s expression now, conflated with frustration and not a little bit of fear. His eyes still gleam silver against the darkening sky behind him. “ _Helping_?”

Oliver takes a breath, paralyzed momentarily under the weight of the gaze upon him before he moves to take Gerry’s hands in his own. “It was the only way I knew…trust me, _please_.”

Silver fades to gray once more, and Gerry’s shoulders slump with resignation. “It isn’t _you_ I don’t trust,” he mumbles. Nonetheless, he makes no move to argue with Oliver – or Ria, for that matter. He just sticks close to Oliver’s side through the night, as the scorched body of Dr. Williams is loaded into the back of the van. As it is buried in a nearby forest.

At the steering wheel, with dirt caked under his nails and holding the wallet Ria took from the meteorologist before the lightning strike hit, Oliver takes a moment to gather his composure before the drive back home. Gerry sits in the passenger seat, knees drawn up to his chest – still processing, Oliver assumes, Ria’s interference.

“I’m…sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” he whispers, unaware if he’ll be heard or not but unable to contain the sentiment.

“S’okay,” Gerry mumbles back, in a way that means he’s still not at peace with the information. “I’m still here.”

Right. Gerry had made it clear that he didn’t think joining the Point Nemo voyage was a good idea. Ria just adds another reason for opposing the trip to Gerry’s list, and yet… and yet, he still plans on going. Gratitude wells up in Oliver’s chest, and he drops Dr. Williams’ wallet into the van’s cupholder to reach out and take Gerry’s left hand. “Thank you.”

In lieu of a verbal response, Gerry intertwines his fingers with Oliver’s and nods. His support is not without doubt, but it is undoubtedly solid. “Guess I’m Dr. Eric Williams now,” he sighs.

“Guess so.” Oliver chances a smile, an attempt at connection and solidarity in a situation which he knows seems utterly hopeless to Gerry. He finds the smile returned – shaky, half-hidden behind a curtain of black hair, but returned.


	23. Starboard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerry’s never been good at denying the people he loves what they want.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Recommendation: “Savior Complex” by Phoebe Bridgers
> 
> ( _"Drift off on the floor/I drag you to the shore/.../I'm too tired to have a pissing contest/All the bad dreams that you hide/Show me yours, I'll show you mine"_ )

When Gerry first glimpses the mangled body of Dr. Thomas Pritchard sprawled across the early-morning highway, his first thought is that he’s seen worse.

From the way Oliver’s hand tightens in his, how wide his eyes are when Gerry glances sideways, Oliver hasn’t seen worse. Not in stark flesh and blood; not outside of dreamscapes.

“Oliver...” Gerry trails off, unsure of whether to offer reassurance or once again make the point that what they’re doing here is dangerous, isn’t  _ right. _The decision is made for him when Oliver abruptly turns and buries his face in Gerry’s neck with a shudder. Seeking solace, support. Gerry can’t deny him that.

Gerry’s never been good at denying the people he loves what they want - his fleeting hesitance to flee the site of his mother’s bloody  ritual gave him a bone-deep understanding of  _ that_. If he could barely run from her then, how could he begin to run from Oliver now?

( _Oliver, who caught Gerry’s fall in a graveyard._

_ Oliver, who welcomed Gerry into his home with no reservations. _

_ Oliver, who brings Gerry water when he wakes up screaming. _

_ Oliver, who saved Gerry’s life and has never  _ once _asked for anything in return._ )

He  _ couldn’t. _He couldn’t run. So he doesn’t.

He maybe, probably, definitely  _should_.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he curls one arm around Oliver’s shoulders, lifting their still-tangled hands to rest between heartbeats with the other.

Gerry could stay like this forever, he thinks, but there is still the matter of urgency to consider. Their chances of remaining unseen while disposing of Dr. Pritchard’s body sink lower and lower with the rising sun.

“Should probably get to moving him,” he mumbles. Oliver nods against his shoulder and pulls away reluctantly, turning to face the crash scene.

* * *

As he steps aboard the RV Examiner, Oliver feels the heaviness of Dr. Pritchard’s wallet in his jacket pocket - the cold, sinking discomfort of impersonating the dead. It does not weigh as much as his eyelids. So he does his best to seem like he belongs, mumbles clipped greetings and complaints about insomnia to the scientists and crew members who approach him.

Mostly, he looks for Gerry. They had agreed to board separately and a few minutes apart, so as to arouse as little suspicion as possible. Oliver is of the opinion that the love lives of Dr. Pritchard and Dr. Williams aren’t the business or anybody else on board; nonetheless, better safe than sorry he supposes.

He finds Gerry starboard, speaking with Clara - the head marine biologist of the trip, and someone whose excessive friendliness is, simply put, quite grating.

Gerry seems to be handling himself just fine. That is, until Clara calls him “Eric.” Then, he freezes, eyes wide with sudden realization - flashes of emotions Oliver can’t quite pinpoint but knows aren’t  good. And then he’s swaying like he was when Oliver met him in the Magnus Institute lobby, bracing one hand against the railing behind him, grip whiteknuckle tight. Was he doing that before and just hiding it better?

In his own exhausted state, It’s difficult for Oliver to tell if Gerry’s just been standing for too long or if whatever knowledge has dawned on him caused the unsteadiness.  _ Either way_, Oliver decides,  _ it’s time for Clara to leave him alone. _

“Eric! It’s been awhile!”

Gerry lights up when he hears Oliver’s voice - still struggling to stay upright, but smiling now. “Thomas.” He says the name with the same delicacy he says “Oliver,” and Clara - after a knowing glance between them, chirps out a “see you two later!” before taking her leave.

As soon as she’s out of sight, Oliver rushes to Gerry, who lets go of the railing to fall into him. He rests his head against Oliver’s chest, hands tangling in the fabric of his jacket.

“Dizzy?” Softly-spoken question. Fingers beginning to card gently through night-sky hair.

“Little bit.” Weary half-smile. Warm, troubled eyes glancing up through long lashes. “That isn’t _it_ , though, though. There’s... a  story. ” Deep sigh. Deflating posture.

“Well, we’re going to go go my cabin so you can sit down. If you decide to, you can tell the story there.”

Gerry nods, taking Oliver’s arm with surprising jauntiness that leads to him stumbling slightly off-balance. “Lead the way,  _captain_. ”

In spite of himself, of worry and fatigue, Oliver laughs.

* * *

Oliver’s cabin doesn’t have the most comfortable bed, but it’s somewhere to sit. And with Oliver perched right next to him, Gerry finds it hard to care much about a mattress that’s slightly too firm.

Once his head stops swimming, he turns to tell a story he’s never revealed to another living soul. A piece of the past he feels Oliver  should know about him. 

Someone so close to his heart deserves to be trusted enough to hear the truth. 

Taking both of Oliver’s hands in his, he begins: “I hadn’t thought about the first name of my...science identity very much, not until Clara called me ‘Eric’ instead of ‘Dr. Williams.’”

Then, with a deep breath, he delves into the first fact of a domino chain of memories. “I never really knew my dad, but his name was Eric Delano.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me @avatarofthebeholding on tumblr where I will NOT shut up about this au (& GerryOliver in general)


	24. Little Flames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time in years, Oliver lets himself fall asleep with some semblance of hope for a change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song recommendation: “Companion Star” by Vanessa Carlton
> 
> ( _"What have I become?/.../Piece me together now/In the weather of my mind/.../Northern star/When I wander far/Pull me back to love/You will be the bridge between"_ )

“You realize you don’t need to keep doing this, right?” Gerry mumbles into Oliver’s shoulder.

“Doing what?”

“Holding onto me like I’m about to fall apart.” He pulls back just enough to meet Oliver’s gaze, eyes flickering with fond amusement. “I won’t. Promise.”

Oliver barely stops himself from letting out the disbelieving laughter that bubbles up in his throat. “Gerry, what you just told me...”

“Happened a long time ago. It’s not a new scar anymore - just a dull ache, really.” Gerry blows a wisp of hair out of his face and smiles.

“Hmm.”

“Like I said, I didn’t really know him.”

“Well that’s its own scar, isn’t it?” Oliver knows he’s being stubborn. He’s  going to be stubborn, because there’s no way he’s letting Gerry airily brush off the topic of “I never knew my father because my mother killed him”  _ that _ easily.

Gerry’s eyes widen momentarily, and he tugs absently at his lip ring. Then, he bursts into a fit of giggles, tipping his head to rest against Oliver’s chest.

“Gerry? What - ?...uh...” Oliver is genuinely  confused now, and is about to voice that when Gerry looks up at him with a soft smile, cheeks flushed from laughing.

“I dunno. You’re cute, is all.” He tilts his head, brow furrowing as the edges of his smile fade into a thoughtful line. “You worry a lot about me.”

“Should I not?”

“That’s - I’m not saying you shouldn’t.” Gerry sighs, eyes flickering up towards the ceiling as he searches for words. “Just... it’s new. I’m not used to it.”

“You realize you’re not helping your case.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Oliver’s too sleep deprived to push any more right now. So, after giving one last indignant huff,he runs his fingertips along Gerry’s cheekbone, then traces the lines of one of the eyes tattooed on his jaw.

Gerry smiles again, a brief flash of teeth as his mouth turns up at the corners.

The brush of their lips together is delicate, airy and grounding, as ordinary as it is monumental.

Whatever comes next, they’ve made it aboard. Together.

For the first time in years, Oliver lets himself fall asleep with some semblance of hope for a change.

* * *

Empty as it is, the ship in Oliver’s dream may as well be abandoned. He lets himself sink into the atmosphere, the calm, the way the waves rock the vessel back and forth under a dark sky pinpricked by constellations.

He lays down on the deck and looks up, tracing invisible threads between the stars to find the shapes they form,basking in the light of the full moon as it bathes everything in a silvery, ethereal glow.

In the dream, he closes his eyes, falling further into the deepest sleep he’s had in years.

When he wakes up, it is again to the glow of moonlight - silver eyes looking curiously into his own from where Gerry lays curled up beside him. “Hey there. Welcome back to the world of the living.”

“How long was I gone?”

“Dunno if you’d believe me if I told you.”

Gerry’s tone is light, but Oliver can see the doubt in his slightly tense posture. He reaches over to brush a strand of hair behind Gerry’s ear. “Course I’d believe you.”

Gerry hums, the sound a melodic blend of attempted nonchalance and a barely-held-back smile, and leans forward to kiss him. This time, it’s sweet and lingering; Gerry’s lips, his smiles against Oliver’s mouth, feel more solid than ever before.

“You’re  _ here _ _,_ ” he breathes when they pull apart, twirling one of Oliver’s braids around his finger.

“I am. And  you haven’t answered my question.”

Gerry releases Oliver’s braid to place a hand on his cheek. “Two days.” Then, like he can’t quite believe his own observation, he repeats, “two days.”

“It’s... it’s  _ working _ _._ ” Oliver doesn’t bother to stifle his sigh of relief, nor the little, incredulous laugh that escapes his mouth.

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.” There’s a slight apprehension in Gerry’s tone, a flicker of clouded doubt in his eyes, but both are matched equally with the same relief Oliver feels ringing through his own bones.

* * *

“It’s not  _ working _ ,” Gerry hisses under his breath, motioning to readings on the lab spectrophotometer that cannot  possibly be correct.

Well, based on Oliver’s knowledge of his prevoyage hour of research into spectrophotometry. Which, admittedly,  could be missing a few details.

He starts with the first question he remembers from a list of common spectrophotometer use problems: “Did you run a blank first, Gerry?”

If Gerry’s frustrated groan is any indication, no, he did  not run a blank first.

“This,” Oliver says, leaning over the lab table to pluck the cuvette out of the machine with an audible smirk, “is why  _ I’m _ the chemist here.”

His lab coat catches on the beaker of their seawater sample as he draws back, and it’s only Gerry’s quick reflexes that stop the glass container fromfalling to the floor and shattering.

“You were saying?” Gerry motions to the rescued sample in his hand with one pitch black nitrile glove and a raised eyebrow. 

And then their daily attempt at being scientists is left abandoned as they try to stay quiet through a fit of laughter, both bent over the table giggling at each other like none of the problems in the world belong to them. 

Oliver regains his composure first, only to lose it once more to a different sort of emotion as he looks at Gerry.

Gerry, cheeks flushed and thin shoulders shaking, face and eyes overwhelmed with the kind of childlike joy that cannot exist without vulnerability.

Gerry, whose eyes are as full and beautiful in shades of soft gray as they are when touched with the silver sheen of knowledge.

Gerry, whose lips part on a question as his breathing slows. “What?”

Oliver answers without thinking, lost in the strength of emotionally charged air and the euphoria of revelation of a well-rested mind. “I love you.”

Gerry’s freezes, eyes going deer-in-headlights wide, and Oliver promptly turns to face away from him to hide how red he’s  sure his own face must be now. He  _ really _ should have planned that out better, and that thought is looping in his head when, with startling suddenness, Gerry is standing in front of him. Wide smile. Incredulous gaze. “Hey there.”

“Hi?” Oliver winces at how squeaky his voice suddenly sounds. If Gerry notices, he doesn’t say anything - just reaches out to take Oliver’s hands and pull him to his feet.

“I love you too.” Gerry speaks with the warm certainty of a hearth fire, solid and steady beneath Oliver’s fingertips. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter was inspired by this line from All Quiet on the Western Front: “We are little flames poorly sheltered by frail walls against the storm of dissolution and madness, in which we flicker and sometimes almost go out…we creep in upon ourselves and with big eyes stare into the night…and thus we wait for morning.”
> 
> find me @avatarofthebeholding on tumblr where I will NOT shut up about this au (& GerryOliver in general)


	25. Uncertain Outcomes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> According to Clara, it’s two days to Point Nemo. Close enough to spark unease in Gerry’s gut, a feeling that the End won’t let Oliver go so easily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Recommendation: “Graveyard” by Halsey 
> 
> ( _"I keep running when both my feet hurt/I won't stop 'till I get where you are/Oh, when you go/Down all your darkest roads/I would've followed all the way to the graveyard."_ )

It is four nights before Oliver regains enough wonder to walk up and down the length of the ship in his dream, staring out at the horizon of midnight blue ocean against starry sky. Gazing into the water that surrounds him on all sides, peaceful in its steady rolling.

And then, all at once, it isn’t. A dark tendril snakes its way through the choppy waves, far enough below the surface that Oliver’s first instinct is to lean forwards and see if his vision is correct. It is, and the realization sends a shockwave of dread through his system - sends him stumbling backwards until he slams into the bridge ladder. Not quite out of the woods yet, then. He supposes that’s...good to know. Useful, at least.

The need to look back into the water - to study the quality of the veins and where they are going and what exactly they’re forecasting - swirls in his stomach, pounds in his head. He steps forward to the railing in spite of his own better judgment, leaps back once more against the cool metal of the ladder when he consciously realizes what he’s doing.

He stays there, then, gripping its sides as he tries to steady his breathing. Confused, the fibers of his being interlaced with morbid curiosity, he stands breathlessly still until the dream fades.

For the first time since they boarded the Examiner, Oliver wakes up before Gerry.

* * *

A week of peaceful nights passes in a row. Then, Gerry wakes up one morning to Oliver sitting fearfrozen beside him on the bed, panicked eyes staring at the wall.

Of course something had to go wrong. He’d known it would, hadn’t he?

Gingerly, he reaches out to lay a reassuring hand on Oliver’s shoulder, pulling himself up to a sitting position. “Oliver? What is it?”

Oliver jumps at the touch before relaxing into it. Then, his spell of stillness broken, he turns to bury his face in the crook of Gerry’s neck, throwing his arms around his waist. “I’m so sorry,” he breathes, the words stilted as they hitch in his throat.

“For what?”

“Pulling you into this - this was a terrible idea, Gerry, and you told me. You  _ told _ me, and I didn’t listen.”

“Don’t think you were in a state to listen.” Gerry wraps his arms around Oliver’s shoulders with a shuddering breath, at a loss for what else to say.

“What are we going to  _ do _ ? They’ll find out, eventually - we look nothing like who we’re supposed to be.”

Gerry stares at the same wall Oliver was. Predictably, it doesn’t give him any answers. Worth a shot, though - stranger things have happened.

With a sigh, he turns to press a kiss to Oliver’s forehead. “We’ll figure it out.”

The arms around Gerry’s waist tighten. Oliver shifts his head to make eye contact, and his gaze is full of a deep, pleading anxiety that makes Gerry’s heart ache. “What if they...what if they just decide to pitch us overboard? Leave us to die out here?”

“I don’t think they will. They don’t particularly seem like the types to solve their problems with murder.”

“You haven’t heard the stories about Captain MacAvey?”

“Oh, I have. But we haven’t seen her this whole trip, have we? Maybe she’s taking a break from being awful - even my mum did that sometimes.”

Oliver’s gaze turns from fearful to profoundly sorrowful, then. He leans in to brush his lips softly against Gerry’s, tilting their foreheads together.

“S’okay; she’s not around anymore.” Gerry’s touched by Oliver’s feelings on his behalf, but that deep melancholy has no place in this moment.

“That doesn’t stop you from having to deal with what she left behind.”

Aftermath. The colors of a fearful world, mixed and bloodied and saturating his every thought. Yeah, Gerry supposes that _ has _ been a bit difficult to deal with. “Thanks,” he tells Oliver, hoping gratitude comes across in the ghost of a smile that plays across his lips.

“For what?” Oliver’s brow furrows, knitting sadness and confusion together. “All I’ve done lately is get you trapped in the middle of the ocean.”

“Thanks for telling me it’s real.” He doesn’t explain further. He doesn’t need to. Oliver’s features light up with understanding, clear and calm as the waters surrounding them.

According to Clara, it’s two days to Point Nemo. Close enough to spark unease in Gerry’s gut, a feeling that the End won’t let Oliver go so easily. A tug at the stitches in his soul that leads in the same direction the ship’s course does. But there is hope, still, buried somewhere under the wreck of his memories. With Oliver drifting into a peaceful sleep in his arms, Gerry retreats inwards, digs through the rubble to find it. It is excavated hope, and Oliver - really, the two aren’t so different - that Gerryholds onto through the night.

* * *

“Gerry - Gerry, wake up,  _ please _ wake up!” Oliver’s frantic voice is the first thing Gerry hears as he drifts into consciousness on their projected day of arrival at Point Nemo. With growing concern, he registers trembling hands shaking his shoulders with gentle urgency.

“Oliver, what...?” He trails off as he opens his eyes to See Oliver’s skeleton clear through his skin, watches as the mark of the End vanishes and reappears between blinks.

Oliver’s voice is hushed but panicked. “It’s wrapped around my throat, Gerry, wrapped around  _ you_ _._ The dread, the cold, c-can you feel it?”

Yes, Gerry can feel it now. It sinks in his stomach, heavy and certain and terminal.He nods his head, leaps to his feet and grabs ahold of Oliver’s hand, gritting his teeth against the dots of dizziness that swim suddenly across his vision. Before conclusions, they need answers, and they’re not going to find those by surrendering to fear.

He kicks the cabin door open and takes off towards the deck, Oliver keeping pace with no questions asked. The fingers intertwined with his own feel real, whole,  _ alive _ \- a reminder that the Eye shows the worst possible ending, provokes as much fear as it can even when an outcome isn’t inevitable.

Gerry’s never doubted that the Eye projected his death to watch Oliver’s dismay, showed a fate not yet secured in order to inspire apprehension. Just like it acted through him to haunt the nurse who treated his burns.

As he runs, ignoring the pain that courses through his knees and the wobble in every footfall, he holds tightly to the possibility that the Eye’s cruelhelpful mechinations can see him and Oliver through this alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Gerry’s observations about the Eye projecting his death early to scare Oliver match up with the expansions I made upon Eye lore for this au. I will be posting more abt my hcs re:that on tumblr at some point.
> 
> find me @avatarofthebeholding on tumblr where I will NOT shut up about this au (& GerryOliver in general)


	26. Swan Dive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver wants to gather Gerry into his arms until they both regain their strength, to kiss him until his eyes grow heavy-lidded with calm content. But that is not an option, no matter how much he aches for it to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Recommendation: "Sound the Bells" by Dessa
> 
> ( _"Boys sound the bells/The sun rose from the west today/I doubt we'll see it set/.../The lighthouse keeper's last relay:/Hand shadows and a final wave/Now's the time to rouse yourself/Spend the strength you've saved"_ )

Dark tendrils of impending death twist across the deck of the RS Examiner, reaching out to wrap around each crew member and scientist – moving at a slow, methodical crawl. They burst from lungs, curl themselves around arms and legs and necks. They are inescapable, and Oliver knows that with a certainty that goes bone-deep.

Every soul is oblivious, too, peacefully going about their day. Well, except for Gerry, who stands rigid beside him as his piercing silver eyes take in the scene. He squeezes Oliver’s hand, letting out a sigh as his shoulders drop with discouragement. “I don’t know if the Eye can get us out of this one.”

“I – I don’t think so. It’s all about inevitability, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” pipes a cheerful voice behind them – a voice threaded through with mocking undertones, a voice Oliver would recognize anywhere –, “Yes, it is.”

When he turns around, he can’t help but let out a low, humorless laugh at the sight of Ria Mirti in an ill-fitting ship captain’s uniform – eyes as blank as ever, head tilted slightly to the side as if she’s curious about his next action.

 _Well._ That explains why Captain MacAvey hadn’t emerged to torment to everyone on the ship yet during the voyage.

As always, the aura of dread floats heavy around Ria. Oliver feels frozen, rooted in place by the bloodred gaze that meets his own. All he can do is voice the first observation that comes to mind: “That uniform doesn’t fit you very well, does it?”

Then, Gerry is in front of him, shielding him with squared shoulders and an anger matched only by his protective instinct. Oliver doesn’t need to see his face to imagine the defiant upward tilt of his chin, the hard line of his mouth as he fixes Ria with a burning stare. “What,” he hisses, did you _do_?”

Ria doesn’t bat an eye. She just flashes a sharklike grin, triumphant and calm. “All I did was follow the path laid before me. Piece by piece, death by death.” She pauses momentarily, rising to the balls of her feet to shoot a pointed glance at Oliver where he still stands behind Gerry. “Thank you both, by the way, for helping me out with that second part.”

“Don’t you _dare_. You know as well as I do; he was pushed to a breaking point.”

“Well, I still appreciate the choice to help.”

It’s Gerry’s turn now for ironic laughter. (The sound is harsh, grating in a way Oliver’s never heard before from him.) “You know as well as I do it wasn’t a choice. Not really.”

Ria arches an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Let me talk to Oliver.”

Gerry bristles at her words, but before he can respond with outright refusal, Oliver speaks. “I’ll talk to you. Gerry’s not going anywhere though, not unless he wants to.”

“Fine.”

Gerry shoots Oliver a pained, wide-eyed look. Absent of any signs of the Beholding’s influence, more human and confused than Oliver has seen him in months.

He wants to gather Gerry into his arms until they both regain their strength, to kiss him until his eyes grow heavy-lidded with calm content. But that is not an option, no matter how much he aches for it to be.

So he explains as best, and as concisely, as he can. “You said the Eye can’t help; maybe the End…maybe we can get answers, at least. What do we have to lose, Ger?”

Gerry concedes, stepping slowly back to stand at Oliver’s side.

Ria gives a little clap of her hands, and that mannerism really _would_ be endearing if Oliver didn’t know better. His face twists into an ironic smile at the thought, and for the first time, he sees how she tricked Dr. Pritchard and Dr. Williams into pushing dangerous limits.

“Listen,” she begins, “and understand. I am the skeleton in your closet. The End itself is the skeleton in your closet. There’s only so much you can do to wave away its influence.”

She reaches out to touch the vein curled around Oliver’s neck, and it loosens its crushing hold to twine around her wrist in a movement that seems almost affectionate. “Those dark veins you see? They sleep in your soul. There’s only so much you can do to hide who you are – _what_ you are – before denial can’t save you anymore. And you’re running out of time now, _fast._ ”

“Cut the theatrics. How long do we have?” Gerry snaps.

“It depends on how quickly Oli here acts.”

“How quickly _I_ act?” Oliver… really does not like the sound of this. He swallows, struggling to keep his face impassive.

Ria raises a hand to gesture to the ocean behind him, and when he turns to look, his blood freezes at the sight of the way the vines engulfing the ship branch off from its hull and twist towards a point in the distance. “That point. That is where we will always be, because _you_ are going to take us there.”

Oliver lets out a low chuckle. “If you think I’ll do that, you don’t know me. Then again, we already established that, didn’t we?”

“It’s either that or you both die human and lose the chance to come back. To start again. Steer the ship on its course, or your existence ends. Simple as that.” Ria shrugs as if what she says isn’t indicative of an event which will shatter the lives of Gerry, Oliver, and everyone else aboard the Examiner. As if the concept of loss no longer exists in her perception of the world.

Oliver never wants to reach that point, to be so far from humanity that he accepts any casualty with no measure of concern whatsoever. He glances sideways to read Gerry’s expression, sees the determined glint in his eyes and, moved by the conviction he’s always admired in his partner, makes a decision of his own. Before he can change his mind out of fear, he starts to call out at the top of his lungs to anyone who will listen. “EVERYONE TO THE LIFE RAFTS! WE’RE GOING TO SINK SOON!”

Gerry joins in almost immediately, and together they take off around the deck before descending into the ship, letting their voices echo in its belly. Most people look at them with some combination of pity and annoyance, but a few listen – those few haunted enough that Gerry glances an extra moment at them, eyes flashing with a mesmerizing, unsettling combination of compassion and hunger.

When the round of warnings is finished, Gerry and Oliver climb slowly back up to starboard. They stop when needed, Gerry resting his head against Oliver’s chest as he catches his breath.

“Guess this is it, then,” he mutters when they’ve almost reached the top of the stairs.

“I’m so sorry, Gerry.” Oliver lets out a shuddering sigh, brushing his fingers gently over Gerry’s hair.

“Don’t be. You gave me more time.” Gerry’s sincerity soothes Oliver’s soul, even in the face of impending doom. Even if he can’t quite forgive himself for the choices that landed them both here, facing a death they could have avoided.

“We’re really not coming back after this, are we?”

“No, I don’t think so. Well, I won’t, at least. Ria told me what I had to do, and I…didn’t. Couldn’t.”

“Don’t think I am either.” Gerry sighs, resigned. “I’m not close enough to the Eye, not with how much I’ve done. How I’ve never been able to just _watch_. The amount of knowledge I’ve burned to ash.”

Oliver lets out a shuddering breath and pulls Gerry closer, cupping his face in both hands as love and the fear of fate war-intertwine-settle in his stomach. Gerry’s eyes go stormcloud gray before calming, full of emotion and only slightly tinged by apprehension. “Together?” he asks.

“Together.” Oliver pushes open the door in front of them, and they step into the light just when the first piece of satellite debris hits the ship. They’re thrown off balance, the deck embracing them both. They can do nothing but watch, holding fast to each other, as the ship begins to sink. As lifeboats are hit by more falling fragments from space. As the sky itself crashes down on _them._

The world goes dark as the Examiner sinks.

* * *

At the bottom of the ocean, two pairs of silver eyes open and stare into each other: Detective and Technician – intertwined, surprised, shining bright in their undeath.

* * *

_DETECTIVE – You who watch and intuit what will happen. – Try to help civilians involved in the disasters you foresee through gathered clues. If you succeed, you will haunt them forever, a searching gaze in their memories. If you fail, they will haunt _you _forever, remembered faces you could not save._

_EYES – the silver of reflective metal surfaces, the kind you look into to see what may or may not be **behind you.**_

_TECHNICIAN – You who watch and know the secrets of people with bloodied hands. – Approach those with red veins wrapped around their extremities. Tell them you know what they did. List the murder weapons, the causes of death, the evidence left behind. They will understand that you have the power to wield their past as a weapon. You will never use that power, but it will hang over their heads._

_EYES – the silver of a knife, a gun, a car that hit a pedestrian and kept going._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me @avatarofthebeholding on tumblr where I will NOT shut up about this au (& GerryOliver in general)


	27. Fortress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Careful sitting on ledges like that, Ger; you do know you might fall.”  
> “And that’s such a huge concern after we got hit by a satellite and spent months at the bottom of the ocean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Recommendation: "Hasta la Raíz" by Natalia Lafourcade
> 
> _("Yo te llevo dentro, hasta la raíz/Y por más que crezca, vas a estar aquí/.../Pienso que cada instante sobrevivido al caminar/Y cada segundo de incertidumbre, cada momento de no saber/Son la clave exacta de ese tejido que ando cargando bajo la piel/Así te protejo, aquí sigues dentro" - "I carry you within me, down to the root/And so you may grow better, you will be here/.../I think every instant survived while walking/And every second of uncertainty, every moment of not knowing/Are the exact key to this tissue that I carry beneath my skin/In this way, I protect you; here, follow me inside")_
> 
> (This song is where the name of the whole series came from)
> 
> There are some heavy topics in this chapter re: the fact that Gerry & Oliver at this point have spent several months at the bottom of the ocean, the nature of feeding on fear for both of them, and brief allusions to the events of "First Aid" at one point
> 
> [Playlist on Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/03IFtGqx5ySjeZOv6KCbyM?si=eA9EKb7CRvCFr32yE2mdgg)
> 
> [Playlist on Youtube](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLtxEx5iF7olBPvFd1jtXa-zCmxD714ida)

Gerry sits atop the weathered brick walls of Castillo San Cristóbal, watching the smoke from his lit cigarette drift off into the wind and down towards where the ocean crashes against the shore. He shudders involuntarily at the thought of another almost six thousand miles spent underwater, weakened by the lack of surrounding human life. Stuck disrupting the meals of sea predators as a means of catastrophe prevention, his involvement more likely to fail than succeed given his inability to speak the languages of the creatures he tries to protect.

It’ll be even harder on Oliver; that, he’s sure of. How do you make a shark regret killing to get its meal? How do you gather fear from reading red tendrils of inflicted death on animals that don’t care about getting caught? You don’t, not really.

Gerry’s been speaking about his own fears of discovery, encouraging Oliver to pull the information of the times he’s killed from his mind. Even if it was all for the greater good, it still haunts him. He still would’ve rather destroyed Molina’s book _without_ having to plunge a scalpel into the man’s throat.

Listening to Oliver recite events like that induces enough fear in Gerry to give a sustainable source of energy. It tears him apart, though. When Gerry had first suggested the solution, he’d had to dig his heels into the ocean floor and refuse to go anywhere before Oliver acquiesced.

By the time they’d washed ashore at Playa Río Mar, they’d looked gaunt and ghostlike. No passports to speak of, wallets with IDs they could no longer claim left somewhere at the bottom of the Pacific. They’d been lucky that Gerry’s instincts had led them to save a tourist from drowning – he’d given them access to his room at one of the beach inns for a couple nights so they could clean up and get themselves sorted.

They’d been even luckier when Oliver spotted a pilot with red veins twined around her hands at the first airport they came to. She’d grudgingly let them aboard a flight to San Juan after being confronted with the evidence against her, and now…here they are, a little over halfway to home.

Gerry really hopes he and Oliver are able to sneak onto a flight or voyage back to London somehow. He doesn’t entertain the hope that the ocean between here and London will be kind to them.

An iguana crawls lazily to sun itself a little ways to his right, and _huh, Gerry’s only ever seen pictures of those before._ He turns curiously to get a better look at it, but it skitters out of sight as soon as his eyes land upon it. With a frustrated sigh, he takes another drag of his cigarette.

When Oliver’s arms wrap around him from behind, he feels the care and concern in the embrace reverberate through his bones. He tips his head back to find soft, earthdark eyes looking down at him. With a grin spreading across his face, one he doesn’t bother to hide, he tugs at the shoulder of Oliver’s shirt to pull him down into a kiss. Oliver sighs against his mouth. “Careful sitting on ledges like that, Ger; you _do_ know you might fall.”

“And that’s _such_ a huge concern after we got hit by a satellite and spent months at the bottom of the ocean.”

“…Well, broken bones still aren’t very _enjoyable._ ”

“Okay, okay.” Gerry lets Oliver tug him backwards, rises slowly to his feet as the ledge drops to the solid ground of the upper part of the fortress.

When Oliver’s hand meets his, he hisses in a sudden, unexpected pain and looks down to see that his hands have turned crimson.

“Told you you shouldn’t sit on ledges.”

“Yeah, I know.” Gerry gives a fond, only slightly petulant eyeroll and bumps his shoulder against Oliver’s.

 _The undead can still get sunburned,_ he muses as they walk – Oliver’s arm around his waist, an anchor to all the good still left in the present. _You really do learn something new every day._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand we MADE IT! WOO! I've had SO much fun with this story. I may or may not do more with this au in the future, but I love it with _all_ of my heart and hope the conclusion fits well! Thank you to everyone who's beta read for me, and everyone else who's been so incredibly supportive over the course of the story, for joining me on this _wild_ , months-long GerryOliver journey! :')

**Author's Note:**

> find me @avatarofthebeholding on tumblr where I will NOT shut up about this au (& GerryOliver in general)


End file.
